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FROM THE LAND OF THE SNOW-PEARLS 




FROM THE LAND OF 
THE SNOW-PEARLS 


TALES FROM PUGET SOUND 


/ 

By Ella Higginson. 



LI 




NEW YORK 

The Macmillan Company 
London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd. 




Copyright, 1896, by 
THE CAEVERT company 

Copyright, 1897, by 
THE MACMILEAN COMPANY 


TO 

RUSSELI. CARDEN HIGGINSON 


borne of the stories in this book appeared 
originally in McClure's, Lippincott's, Les- 
lie's Weekly, Short Stories, The Black Cat 
and The New Peterson. I am indebted to 
the publishers of those periodicals for the 
kind permission to reprint them. 

B. H. 

This book was first published under 
the title of “The Flower that Grew in the 
Sand.’’ To the present edition, two stories 
have been added. 


The Publishers. 


Puget Sound lies in its emerald setting 
like a great blue sapphire, which at sun- 
set, draws to its breast all the marvelous 
and splendid coloring of the fire-opal. 
Around it, shining through their rose-col- 
ored mists like pearls upon the soft blue 
or green of the sky, are linked the great 
snow-mountains, so beautiful and so dear, 
that those who love this land with a proud 
and passionate love, have come to think of 
it, fondly and poetically, as “the land of 
the snow-pearls.” 






CONTENTS 


Page 


The Feower that Grew in the Sand .... 1 

Esther’s “Fourth” 21 

The Beow-out at Jenkins’s Grocery 31 

The Taken’ in of Oed Mis’ Lane 41 

•^The Maneuvering op Mrs. Sybert 67 

- A Point op Knuckeing-Down 79 

■^The Cuttin’-Out op Bart Winn 141 

y Zareeda 183 

In The Bitter Root Mountains 207 

V Patience Appepby’s Confessing-Up 217 

The Mother of “Piees” 243 

v/mrs. Riseey’s Christmas Dinner 263 






THE FLOWER THAT GREW IN THE 
SAND 



THB T^LOWER THAT GREW IN THE 
SAND 

Demaris opened the gate and walked up the 
narrow path. There was a low hedge of pink and 
purple candytuft on each side. Inside the hedges 
were little beds of homely flowers in the shapes 
of hearts, diamonds and Maltese crosses. 

Mrs. Eaton was stooping over a rosebush, but 
she arose when she heard the click of the gate. 
She stood looking at Demaris, with her arms 
hanging stiflQy at her sides. 

“Oh,” she said, with a grim smile; “you, is 
it?” 

“Yes,” said the girl, blushing and looking 
embarrassed. “Ain’t it a nice evenin’?” 

“It is that; awful nice. I’m tyin’ up my rose- 
bushes. Won’t you come in an’ set down a 
while ?’ ’ 

“Oh, my, no !” said Demaris. Her eyes went 
wistfully to the pink rosebush. “I can’t stay.” 

“Come fer kindlin’ wood?” 

“No.” She laughed a little at the worn-out 


THE FEOWER THAT GREW IN THE SANd’ 

joke. “I come to see 'f you had two or three 
pink roses to spare.” 

“Why, to be sure, a dozen if you want. Just 
come an’ help yourself. My hands ain’t fit to 
tech ’em after diggin’ so.” 

She stood watching the girl while she carefully 
selected some half-open roses. There was a look 
of good-natured curiosity on her face. 

“Anything goin’ on at the church to-night?”^ 

“No; at least not that I know of.” 

“It must be a party then.” _ 

“No — not a party, either.” She laughed 
merrily. Her face was hidden as she bent over 
the roses, but her ears were pink under the heavy 
brown hair that fell, curling, over them. 

“Well, then, somebody’s cornin’ to see you.” 

“No; I’ll have to tell you.” She lifted a glad, 
shy face. “I’m goin’ on the moonlight excur- 
sion.” 

“Oh, now! Sure? Well, I’m reel glad.” 

“So’m I. I never wanted to go anywheres so 
much in my life. I’ve been ’most holdin’ my 
breath for fear ma’d get sick.” 

“How is your ma?” 

“Well, she ain’t very well; she never is, you 
know.” 

“What ails her ?” 

“I do’ know,” said Demaris, slowly. “We’ll 
get home by midnight. So ’f she iias a spell 


3 


The flower that grew in the sand 


come on, pa can set up with her till I get home, 
and then I can till momin’.” 

“Should think you’d be all wore out a-settin’ 
up two or three nights a week that way.” 

Demaris sighed. The radiance had gone out 
of her face and a look of care was upon it. 

“Well,” she said, after a moment, “I’ll have a 
good time to-night, anyhow. We’re goin’ to have 
the band along. They’re gettin’ so’s they play 
reel well. They play ‘Annie Taurie’ an’ ‘Rocked 
’n the Cradle o’ the Deep,’ now.” 

The gate clicked. A child came running up 
the path. 

“Oh, sister, sister ! Come home quick !” 

“What for?” said Demaris. There was a look 
of dread on her face. 

“Ma’s goin’ right into a spell. She wants you 
quick. She thinks she’s took worse ’n usual.” 

There was a second’s hesitation. The girl’s 
face whitened. Her lips trembled. 

“I guess I won’t want the roses after gettin’ 
’em,” she said. “I’m just as much obliged, 
though. Mis’ Eaton.” 

She followed the child to the gate. 

“Well, if that don’t beat all!” ejaculated Mrs. 
Eaton, looking after her with genuine sympathy. 
“It just seems as if she had a spell to order ev’ry 
time that girl wants to go anywheres. It’s noth- 
in’ but hysterics, anyway. I’d like to doctor her 


3 


THE FEOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND 


for a while. I’d souze a bucket o’ cold water 
over her ! I reckon that ’u’d fetch her to ’n a 
hurry.” 

She laughed with a kind of stern mirth and re- 
sumed her work. 

Demaris hurried home. The child ran at her 
side. Once she took her hand and gave her an 
upward look of sympathy. 

She passed through the kitchen, laying her 
roses on the table. Then she went into her 
mother’s room. 

Mrs. Ferguson lay on a couch. A white cloth 
was banded around her head, coming well down 
over one eye. She was moaning bitterly. 

Demaris looked at her without speaking. 

‘‘Whereon earth you been?” She gave the 
girl a look of fierce reproach. “A body might 
die, fer all the help you’d be to ’em. Here I’ve 
been a-feelin’ a spell a-comin’ on all day, an’ yet 
you go a-gaddin’ ’round to the neighbors, leavin’ 
me to get along the best way I know how. I 
believe this is my last spell. I’ve got that awful 
pain over my right eye ag’in, till I’m nearly 
crazy. My liver’s all out o’ order.” 

Demaris was silent. When one has heard the 
cry of ‘ ‘wolf’ ’ a hundred times, one is inclined to 
be incredulous. Her apathetic look angered her 
mother. 

‘‘What makes you stand there a-starin’ like a 


4 


THE FEOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND 

dunce ? Can’t you help a body ? Get the camfire 
bottle an’ the tincture lobelia an’ the box o’ goose 
grease ! You know’s well’s me what I need when 
I git a spell. I’m so nervous I feel’s if I c’u’d 
fly. I got a horrible feelin’ that this’ll be my last 
spell — an’ yet you stand there a-starin’ ’s if you 
didn’t care a particle !” 

Demaris moved about the room stiffly, as if 
every muscle in her body were in rebellion. She 
took from a closet filled with drugs the big cam- 
phor bottle with its cutglass stopper, the little 
bottle labeled “tine, lobelia,’’ and the box of 
goose grease. 

She placed a chair at the side of the couch 
to hold the bottle. “Oh, take that old split- 
bottom cheer away !’’ exclaimed her mother. 
“Everything upsets on it so ! Get one from the 
kitchen — the one that’s got cherries painted on 
the back of it. What makes you ac’ so ? You 
know what cheer I want. You’d tantalize the 
soul out of a saint !’’ 

The chair was brought. The bottles were placed 
upon it. Demaris stood waiting. 

“Now rub my head with the camfire, or I’ll go 
ravin’ crazy. I can’t think where ’t comes from!’’ 

The child stood twitching her thin fingers 
around a chair. She watched her mother in a 
matter-of-course way. Demaris leaned over the 
couch in an uncomfortable position and commenced 


5 


THE FLOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND 


the slow, gentle massage that must continue all 
night. She did not lift her eyes. They were full 
of tears. 

For a long time there was silence in the room. 
Mrs. Ferguson lay with closed eyes. Her face 
wore a look of mingled injury and reproach. 

“Nellie,” said Demaris, after a while, “could 
you make a fire in the kitchen stove ? Or would 
you rather try to do this while I build it?” 

“Hunh-unh,” said the child, shaking her head 
with emphasis. “I’d ruther build fires any 
time.” 

“All right. Put two dippers ’o water ’n the 
tea-kettle. Be sure you get your dampers right. 
An’ I guess you might wash some potatoes an’ 
put ’em in to bake. They’ll be done by time pa 
comes, an’ he can stay with ma while I warm up 
the rest o’ the things. Ma, what could you eat ?” 

“Oh, I do’ know” — in a slightly mollified tone. 
“A piece o’ toast, mebbe — ’f you don’t get it too 
all-fired hard.” 

“Well, I’ll try not.” 

Nellie went out, and there was silence in the 
room. The wind came in through the open win- 
dow, shaking little ripples of perfume into the 
room. The sun was setting and a broad band of 
reddish gold sunk down the wall. 

Demaris watched it sinking lower, and thought 
bow slowly the sun was settling behind the 
6 


The flower that grew in the sand 


straight pines on the crests of the blue mountains. 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Ferguson, “what a wretched 
creature I am ! Just a-sufferin’ day an’ night, 
year in an’ year out, an’ a burden on them that 
I’ve slaved fer all my life. Many’s the night I’ 
walked with you ’n my arms till momin’, Demaris, 
an’ never knowed what it was to git sleepy or tired. 
An’ now you git mad the minute I go into a spell. ’ ’ 

Demaris stood upright with a tortured look. 

“Oh, ma,” she exclaimed. Her voice was harsh 
with pain. “I ain’t mad. Don’t think I’m mad. 
I can’t cry out o’ pity ev’ry time you have a 
spell, or I’d be cryin’ all the time. An’ besides, 
to-night I’m so — disappointed. ’ ’ 

‘ “What you disappointed about ?” 

‘ ‘Why, you know.'’ ’ Her lips trembled. ‘ ‘The 
excursion.” 

Mrs. Ferguson opened her eyes. 

“Oh, I’d clean fergot that.” 

She looked as if she were thinking she would 
really have postponed the spell, if she had re- 
membered. “That’s too bad, Demaris. That’s 
always the way.” She b?gan to cry helplessly. 
“I’m always in the way. Always mis’rable my- 
self, an’ always makin’ somebody else mis’rable. 
I don’t see what I was born fer.” 

“Never you mind.” Demaris leaned over sud- 
denly and put her arms around her mother. 
“Don’t you think I’m mad. I’m just disap- 


7 


THK FLOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND 


pointed. Now don’t cry. You’ll go and make 
yourself worse. An’ there comes pa; I hear him 
cleanin’ his boots on the scraper. ’ ’ 

Mr. Ferguson stumbled as he came up the steps 
to the kitchen. He was very tired. He was not 
more than fifty, but his thin frame had a pitiable 
stoop. The look of one who has struggled long 
and failed was on his brown and wrinkled face. 
i^His hair and beard were prematurely gray. His 
dim blue eyes had a hopeless expression that was 
almost hidden by a deeper one of patience. He 
wore a coarse flannel shirt, moist with perspira- 
tion, and faded blue overalls. His boots were 
wrinkled and hard; the soil of the fields clung 
to them. “ Sick ag’in, ma?” he said. 

“Sick ag’in ! Mis’rable creature that I am ! 
I’ve got that awful pain over my right eye ag’in. 
I can’t think where it comes from. I’m nearly 
crazy with it.” 

“Well, I guess you’ll feel a little better after you 
git some tea. I’ll go an’ wash, an’ then rub your 
head, while Demaris gits a bite to eat. I’ve 
plowed ever since sun-up, an’ I’m tired an’ hun- 
gry.” 

He returned in a few minutes, and took De- 
maris’ s place. He sighed deeply, but silently, as 
he sat down. 

Demaris set the table and spread upon it the 
simple meal which she had prepared. “I’ll stay 


8 


The eeower that grew in the sand 


with ma while you an’ pa eat,” said Nellie, with 
a sudden burst of unselfishness. 

“Well,” said Demaris, wearily. 

Mr. Ferguson sat down at the table and leaned 
his head on his hand. “I’m too tired to eat,” he 
said; “hungry’s I am.” He looked at the un- 
tempting meal of cold boiled meat, baked pota- 
toes and apple sauce. 

Demaris did not lift her eyes as she sat down. 
She felt that she ought to say something cheerful, 
but her heart was too full of her own disappoint- 
ment. She despised her selfishness even while 
yielding to it. 

“It does beat all about your ma,” said her 
father. “I can’t see where she gits that pain 
from. It ain’t nothin’ danger’s or it ’u’d a-killed 
her long ago. It almost seems ’s if she jests gits 
tired o’ bein’ well, an’ begins to git scared fer 
fear that pain’s a-comin’ on — an’ then it comes 
right on. I’ve heard her say lots o’ times that 
she’d been well a whole week now, but that she 
w’u’dn’t brag or that pain ’u’d come on — an’ 
inside of an hour it ’ud up an’ come on. It’s 
awful discouragin’.” 

“I wish I was dead !” said Demaris. 

Her father did not speak. His silence re- 
proached her more than any words could have 
done. 


y 


FIvOWEK I'nAT GREW IN ThE SAND 

When she went into the bedroom again she 
found her mother crying childishly. 

“Demaris, did I hear you say you wished you 
was dead ?’ ’ 

“I guess so. I said it.” 

“Well, God Almighty knows I wish I was ! 
You don’t stop to think what ’u’d become o’ me 
’f it wa’n’t fer you. Your pa c’u’dn’t hire an)'^- 
body, an’ he’s gittin’ too old to set up o’ nights 
after workin’ hard all day. You’d like to see’t 
all come on your little sister, I reckon. ’ ’ 

Demaris thought of those slim, weak wrists, 
and shivered. Her mother commenced to sob — 
and that aggravated the pain. 

Demaris stooped and put her arms around her 
and kissed her. 

“I’m sorry I said it,” she whispered. “I didn’t 
mean it. I’m just tired an’ cross. You know I 
didn’t mean it.” ; 

Her father came in heavily. 

“Demaris,” he said, “Frank Vickers is cornin’ 
’round to the front door. I’ll take keer o’ your 
ma while you go in an’ see him.” 

It was a radiant-faced young fellow that walked 
into Demaris’ s little parlor. He took her hand 
with a tenderness that brought the color beating 
into her cheeks. 

“What?” he said. “An’ you ain’t ready? 
Why, the boat leaves in an hour, an’ it’s a good, 


lO 


THE ELOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND 


long walk to the wharf. You’ll have to hurry 
up, Demaris.” 

“I can’t go.” 

‘‘You can’t go ? Why can’t you ?” 

She lifted her eyes bravely. Then tears swelled 
into them very slowly until they were full. Not 
one fell. She looked at him through them. He 
felt her hand trembling against the palm of his 
own. 

‘‘Why can’t you, Demaris?” 

‘‘My mother’s sick — just hear her moanin’ clear 
in here,” 

Young Vickers’s face was a study. 

‘‘Why, she was sick last time I wanted to take 
you som’ers — to a dance, wasn’t it?” 

‘‘Yes — I know.” 

‘‘An’ time before that, when I wanted you to 
go to a church sociable up’n String Town.” 

‘‘Yes.” 

‘‘Why, she must be sick near onto all the time, 
accordin’ to that.” 

‘‘She is — pretty near.” She withdrew her 
hand. There was a stiff-looking lounge in one 
corner of the room. It was covered with Brussels 
carpet, and had an uncomfortable back, but it 
was dear to Demaris’s heart. She had gathered 
and sold strawberries two whole summers to pay 
for it. She sat down on it now and laid her 
hands together on her knees. 


II 


^HE EEOWER THAT' GREW IN THE SAND 


The young man followed and sat down beside 
her. 

“Why, my dear,” he said, very quietly, “you 
can’t stand this sort of thing — it’s wearin’ you 
out. You never did look light an’ happy like 
other girls o’ your age; an’ lately you’re gettin’ 
a real pinched look. I feel as if ’t was time for 
me to interfere. ’ ’ He took her hand again. 

It was dim twilight in the room now. De- 
maris turned her head aside. The tears brimmed 
over and fell fast and silently. 

“Interferin’ won’t do no good,’’ she said, res- 
olutely. “There’s just two things about it. My 
mother’s sick all the time, an’ I have to wait on 
her. There’s nobody else to do it.’’ 

“Well, as long ’s you stay at home it’ll all come 
on you. You ain’t able to carry sech a load.’’ 

“I’ll have to.’’ 

“Demaris, you’ll just have to leave.’’ 

“\Vhat !’’ said the girl. She turned to look at 
him in a startled way. ‘ ‘Teave home ? I couldn’t 
think of doin’ that.’’ 

He leaned toward her and put his arm around 
her, trembling strongly. “Not even to come to 
my home, Demaris ? I want you, dear; an’ I 
won’t let you kill yourself workin’ , either. I ain’t 
rich, but I’m well enough off to give you a com- 
fortable home an’ some one to do your work for 
you.’’ 


12 


THE FEOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND 


There was a deep silence. Each felt the full 
beating of the other’s heart. There was a rose- 
bush under the window, an old-fashioned one. 
Its blooms were not beautiful, but they were very 
sweet. It had flung a slim, white spray of them 
into the room. Demaris never smelled their fra- 
grance afterward without a keen, exquisite thrill 
of passion, as brief as it was delicious. 

“I can’t, Frank.” Her tone was low and un- 
certain. ‘T can’t leave my mother. She’s sick 
an’ gettin’ old. I can’t.” 

‘‘Oh, Demaris ! That’s rank foolishness !” 

“Well, I guess it’s the right kind of foolish- 
ness.” She drew away and sat looking at him. 
Her hands were pressed together in her lap. 

“Why, it ain’t expected that a girl ’ad ought 
to stay an’ take care o’ her mother forever, is it ? 
It ain’t expected that she ought to turn herself 
into a hospital nurse, is it ?’ ’ 

Her face grew stern. 

“Don’t talk that way, Frank. That ain’t re- 
spectful to my mother. She’s had a hard life an’ 
so’s my father. You know I want to come, but 
I can’t. It’s my place to stay an’ take care o’ 
her. I’m goin’ to do it — hard ’s it is. My leav- 
in’ ’em ’u’d just take the heart out of both of ’em. 
An’ there’s Nellie, too.” 

“Demaris — ” he spoke slowly; his face was 
pale — “I’m goin’ to say somethin’ to you I never 


13 


THE FLOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND 


thought I’d say to any girl alive. But the fact 

is, I didn’t know till right now how much I think 
o’ you. You marry me, an’ we’ll all live to- 
gether?” 

Her face softened. She leaned a little toward 
him with uncontrollable tenderness. But as he 
made a quick movement, she drew back. 

‘‘No, Frank. I can’t — I can’t ! It won’t do. 
Such things is what breaks women’s hearts !” 

‘ ‘What things, dear?” 

‘‘Folks livin’ together that way. There’s no 
good ever comes of it. I’d have to set up with 
mother just the same, an’ you’d be worryin’ all 
the time for fear it ’u’d make me sick, an’ you’d 
be wantin’ to set up with ’er yourself.” 

‘‘Of course,” he said, stoutly. ‘‘I’d expect to. 
That’s what I mean. I’d take some o’ your load 
off o’ you.” 

Demaris smiled mournfully. “You don’t know 
what it is, Frank. It’s all very well to talk about 

it, but when it comes to doin’ it you’d be tired 
out ’n a month. You’d wish you hadn’t married 
me — an’ that ’u’d kill me !” 

“I wouldn’t. Oh, Demaris, just you try me. 
I’ll be good to all your folks— just as good’s can 
be, dear. I swear it.” 

She leaned toward him again with a sob. He 
took her in his arms. He felt the delicious 


14 


*rHE FLOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND 


warmth of her body. Their lips trembled to- 
gether. 

After a while she drew away slowly and looked 
at him earnestly in the faint light. 

“If I thought you wouldn’t change,’’ she fal- 
tered. “I know you mean it now, bat oh — ’’ 

“Sister,’’ called a thin, troubled voice from the 
hall; “can’t you come here just a minute ?’’ 

Demaris went at once, closing the door behind 
her. 

The child threw her slim arms around her 
sister’s waist, sobbing. 

‘ ‘Oh, sister, I forgot to get the kindlin’ wood, 
an’ now it’s so dark down cellar. I’m afraid. 
Can’t you come with me ?’’ 

“Wait a few minutes, dear, an’ I will. Frank 
won’t stay long to-night.’’ 

“Oh, won’t he? I’m so glad.’’ Her voice 
sunk to a whisper. “I hate to have him here, 
sister. He takes you away from us so much, an’ 
ev’ry thing goes wrong when you ain’t here. Ma’s 
offul bad to-night, an’ pa looks so tired ! Don’t 
let him stay long, sister. He don’t need you as 
bad ’s we do.” 

She tiptoed into the kitchen. Demaris stood 
still in the hall. The moon was coming, large 
and silver, over the hill. Its soft light brought 
her slender figure out of the dark, and set a halo 
above her head bending on its fair neck, like a 


15 


THE FLOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND 


flower on its stem. Her lips moved, but tbe 
prayer remained voiceless in her heart. 

A moan came from her mother’s room. 

“Oh, paw, you hurt my head ! Your hand ’s 
terrable rough ! Is that girl goin’ to stay in there 
forever ?’ ’ 

Demaris lifted her head and walked steadily 
into the poor little parlor. “I’ll have to ask you 
to go now, Frank; my mother needs me.” 

“Well, dear.” He reached his strong young 
arms to her. She stood back, moving her head 
from side to side. 

“No, Frank. I can’t marry you, now or ever. 
My mother comes first.” 

“But you ain’t taken time to make up youi 
mind, Demaris. I’ll wait fer ’n answer.” 

“It’s no use. I made up my miijd out ’n the 
hall. You might as well go. When I make up 
my mind it’s no use in try in’ to get me to change 
it. I hadn’t made it up before.” 

He went to her and took her hands. 

“Demaris,” he said, and all his heart-break was 
in his voice, “do you mean it? Oh, my dear, 
I’ll go if you send me; but I’ll never come back 
again; never.” 

She hesitated but a second. Then she said 
very gently, without emotion — ‘ ‘Yes, go. You’ve 
been good to me; but it’s all over. Good-bye.” 


:5 


THE FLOWER THAT GREW IN THE SAND 


He dropped her hands without a word, and 
went. 

She did not look after him, or listen to his foot- 
steps. She went to the cellar with Nellie, to get 
the kindling wood, which she arranged in the 
stove, ready for the match in the morning. 

Then she went into her mother’s room. She 
looked pale in the flickering light of the candle. 

“I’ll take care of ma, now, pa,” she said. 
“You get to bed an’ rest. I know you’re all 
tired out — plowin’ ever since sun-up ! An’ don’t 
you get up till I call you. I ain’t a bit sleepy. 
I couldn’t sleep if I went to bed.” 

She moistened her Angers with camphor and 
commenced bathing her mother’s brow. 


17 


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ESTHER’S “FOURTH” 









ESTHER’S “FOURTH” 


It was the fourth day of July, and the fourth 
hour of the day. Long, beryl ribbons of color 
were streaming through the lovely Grand Ronde 
valley when the little girl awoke — so suddenly 
and so completely that it seemed as if she had not 
been asleep at all. 

“Sister!” she cried in a thin, eager voice. 
“Ain’t it time to get up? It’s just struck four.” 

“Not yet,” said the older girl drowsily. 
“There’s lots o’ time. Pet.” 

She put one arm under the child affectionately 
and fell asleep again. The little girl lay motion- 
less, waiting. There was a large cherry tree out- 
side, close to the tiny window above her bed, and 
she could hear the soft turning of the leaves, one 
against the other, and the fluttering of the rob- 
ins that were already stealing the cherries. In- 
nocent thieves that they were, they continually 
betrayed themselves by their shrill cries of 
triumph. 

Not far from the tiny log-cabin the river went 
singing by on its way through the green valley; 
hearing it, Esther thought of the soft glooms 
under the noble balm trees, where the grouse 


21 


ESTHER’S “fourth” 


drummed and butterflies drifted in long level 
flight. Esther always breathed softly while she 
watched the butterflies — she had a kind of rever- 
ence for them — and she thought there could be 
nothing sweeter, even in heaven, than the scents 
that the wind shook out of the balms. 

She lay patiently waiting with wide eyes until 
the round clock in the kitchen told her that an- 
other hour had gone by. ‘ ‘Sister, ’ ’ she said then , 
“oh, it must be time to get up ! I just can't 
wait any longer. ’ ’ 

The older girl, with a sleepy but sympathetic 
smile, slipped out of bed and commenced dress- 
ing. The child sprang after her. “Sister,” she 
cried, running to the splint-bottomed chair on 
which lay the cheap but exquisitely white under- 
garments. “I can’t hardly wait. Ain’t it good 
of Mr. Hoover to take me to town ? Oh, I feel 
as if I had hearts all over me, an’ every one of 
’em beating so ! ” 

“Don’t be so excited. Pet.” The older sister 
smiled gently at the child. ‘ ‘Things never are 
quite as nice as you expect them to be,” she 
added, with that wisdom that comes so soon to 
starved country hearts. 

“Well, this can’t help bein’ nice,” said the 
child, with a beautiful faith. She sat on the strip 
of rag carpeting that partially covered the rough 
floor, and drew on her stockings and her copper- 
22 


ESTHER’S “fourth” 


toed shoes. “Oh, sister, my fingers shake so I can’t 
get the strings through the eyelets ! Do you 
think Mr. Hoover might oversleep hisself? It 
can’t help bein’ nice — nicer ’n I expect. Of 
course,” she added, with a momentary regret, 
“I wish I had some other dress besides that buff 
calico, but I ain’t, an’ so — it’s reel pretty, any- 
ways, sister, ain’t it? ” 

“Yes, Pet,” said the girl gently. There was 
a bitter pity for the child in her heart. 

‘ ‘To think o’ ridin’ in the Libraty Car ! ’ ’ con- 
tinued Esther, struggling with the shoe strings. 
“Course they’ll let me. Paw knows the store- 
keeper, and Mr. Hoover kin tell ’em who I am. 
An’ the horses, an’ the ribbons, an’ the music — 
an’ all the little girls my age ! Sister, it’s awful 
never to have any little girls to play with ! I 
guess maw don’t know how I’ve wanted ’em, 
or she’d of took me to town sometimes. I 
ain’t never been anywheres — except to Mis’ Bun- 
nels’s fun’ral, when the minister prayed so long,” 
she added, with a pious after-thought. 

It was a happy child that was lifted to the 
back of the most trustworthy of the plow-horses 
to be escorted to the celebration by ‘ ‘Mr. Hoover, ’ ’ 
the hired man. The face under the cheap straw 
hat, with its wreath of pink and green artificial 
flowers, was almost pathetically radiant. To that 
poor little heart so hungry for pleasure, there 
23 


ESTHER’S “fourth” 


could be no bliss so supreme as a ride in the vil- 
lage “Libraty Car” — to be one of the states, pref- 
erably “Oregon ! ” To hear the music and hold a 
flag, and sit close to little girls of her own age who 
would smile kindly at her and, perhaps, even ask 
her name shyly, and take her home with them to 
see their dolls. 

“Oh,” she cried, grasping the reins in her thin 
hands, “I’m all of a tremble ! Just like maw on 
wash days ! Only I ain’t tired — I’m just glad.” 

There were shifting groups of children in front 
of the school house. Everything — even the white 
houses with their green blinds and neat door- 
yards — ^seemed strange and over-powering to 
Esther. The buoyancy with which she had sur- 
veyed the world from the back of a tall horse 
gave way to sudden timidity and self-consciousness. 

Mr. Hoover put her down in the midst of the 
children. “There, now,” he said cheerfully, “play 
around with the little girls like a nice body while 
I put up the horses. ’ ’ 

A terrible loneliness came upon Esther as she 
watched him leading away the horses. All those 
merry children chattering and shouting, and not 
one speaking to her or taking the slightest notice 
of her. She realized with a suddenness that 
dazed her and blurred everything before her 
country eyes that she was very, very different 
from them — why, every one of the little girls was 
24 


Esther’s “fourth” 


dressed in pure, soft white, with a beautiful 
sash and bows; all wore pretty slippers. There 
was not one copper-toed shoe among them ! 

Her heart came up into her thin, little throat 
and beat and beat there. She wished that she 
might sit down and hide her shoes, but then the 
dress was just as bad. That couldn’t be hidden. 
So she stood awkwardly in their midst, stiff and 
motionless, with a look in her eyes that ought to 
have touched somebody’s heart. 

Then the “Liberty Car” came, drawn by six 
noble white horses decorated with flags, ribbons 
and rosettes, and stepping out oh, so proudly in 
perfect time with the village band. Esther forgot 
her buff calico dress and her copper- toed shoes in 
the exquisite delight of that moment. 

The little girls were placed in the car. Each 
carried a banner on which was painted the name 
of a state. What graceful, dancing little bodies 
they were, and how their feet twinkled and could 
not be quiet ! When “Oregon” went proudly by, 
Esther’s heart sank. She wondered which state 
they would give to her. 

The band stopped playing. All the girls were 
seated; somehow there seemed to be no place left 
for another. Esther went forward bravely 
and set one copper-toed shoe on the step of the 
car. The ladies in charge looked at her; 
then, at each other. 


25 


Esther’s “fourth” 


“Hello, Country !” cried a boy’s shrill voice 
behind her suddenly. “My stars! She thinks 
she’s goin’ in the car. What a jay I ” 

Esther stood as if petrified with her foot still 
on the step. She felt that they were all looking 
at her. What terrible things human eyes can 
be I A kind of terror took hold of her. She 
trembled. There seemed to be a great stillness 
about her. 

“Can’t I go?” she said to one of the ladies. 
Her heart was beating so hard and so fast in her 
throat that her voice sounded far away to her. 
“My paw knows Mr. Mallory, the store-keeper. 
We live down by the river on the Nesley place. 
We’re poor, but my paw alwus pays his debts. I 
come with Mr. Hoover; he’s gone to put up the 
horses.” 

It was spoken — the poor little speech, at once 
passionate and despairing as any prayer to God. 
Then it was that Esther learned that there are 
silences which are harder to bear than the wildest 
tumult. 

But presently one of the ladies said, very kind- 
ly — “Why, I am so sorry, little girl, but you see 
— er — all the little girls who ride in the car must 
— er — be dressed in white. ’ ’ 

Esther removed her foot heavily from the 
step and stood back. 

‘ ‘Oh, look I ’ ’ cried “Oregon’ ’ , leaning from the 


26 


Esther’s “fourth” 


car. ‘ ‘She wanted to ride in here ! In a yellow 
calico dress and copper- toed shoes ! ” 

Then the band played, the horses pranced and 
tossed their heads, the flags and banners floated 
on the breeze, and the beautiful car moved away. 

Esther stood looking after it until she heard Mr. 
Hoover’s voice at her side, “W’y, what a funny 
little girl ! There the car’s gone, an’ she didn’t 
go an’ git in it, after all ! Did anybody ever see 
sech a funny little girl ? After gittin’ up so airly, 
an’ hurryin’ everybody so for fear she’d be late, 
an’ a-talkin’ about ridin’ in the Eibraty Car for 
months — an’ then to go an’ not git in it after 
all!” 

Esther turned with a bursting heart. She 
threw herself passionately into his arms and hid 
her face on his breast. 

“I want to go home,” she sobbed. “Oh, I 
want to go home I ’ ’ 


27 


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THE BEOW-OUT AT JENKINS’S GROCERY 





THE BEOW-OUT AT JENKINS’S GROCERY 


The hands of the big, round clock in Mr. Jen- 
kins’s grocery store pointed to eleven. Mr. Jen- 
kins was tying a string around a paper bag con- 
taining a dollar’s worth of sugar. He held one 
end of the string between his teeth. His three 
clerks were going around the store with little 
stiff prances of deference to the customers they 
were serving. It was the night before Christmas. 
They were all so worn out that their attempts at 
smiles were only painful contortions. 

Mr. Jenkins looked at the clock. Then his 
eyes went in a hurried glance of pity to a woman 
sitting on a high stool close to the window. Her 
feet were drawn up on the top rung, and her thin 
shoulders stooped over her chest. She had 
sunken cheeks and hollow eyes; her cheek-bones 
stood out sharply. 

For two hours she had sat there almost motion- 
less. Three times she had lifted her head and 
fixed a strained gaze upon Mr. Jenkins and 
asked, “D’yuh want to shet up?” Each time, 
receiving an answer in the negative, she had sunk 
back into the same attitude of brute-like waiting. 

It was a wild night. The rain drove its long, 


31 


THE BEOW-OUT AT JENKINS ’S GROCERY 

slanting lances down the window-panes. The 
wind howled around corners, banged loose shut- 
ters, creaked swinging sign-boards to and fro, and 
vexed the telephone wires to shrill, continuous 
screaming. Fierce gusts swept in when the door 
was opened. 

Christmas shoppers came and went. The 
woman saw nothing inside the store. Her 
eyes were set on the doors of a brightly lighted 
saloon across the street. 

It was a small, new “boom” town on Puget 
Sound. There was a saloon on every corner, 
and a brass band in every saloon. The “estab- 
lishment” opposite was having its “opening” that 
night. ‘ ‘At home’ ’ cards in square envelopes had 
been sent out to desirable patrons during the 
previous week. That day, during an hour’s sun- 
shine, a yellow chariot, drawn by six cream-col- 
ored horses with snow-white manes and tails, had 
gone slowly through the streets, bearing the mem- 
bers of the band clad in white and gold. It was 
followed by three open carriages, gay with the 
actresses who were to dance and sing that night 
on the stage in the rear of the saloon. All had 
yellow hair and were dressed in yellow with white 
silk sashes, and white ostrich plumes falling to 
their shoulders. It was a gorgeous procession, 
and it ‘ ‘drew. ’ ’ 

The woman lived out in the Grand View addi- 
32 


THE BEOW-OUT AT JENKINS’S GROCERY 


tion. The addition consisted mainly of cabins 
built of “shakes” and charred stumps. The 
grand view was to come some ten or twenty 
years later on, when the forests surrounding the 
addition had taken their departure. It was a full 
mile from the store. 

She had walked in with her husband through 
the rain and slush after putting six small children 
to bed. They were very poor. Her husband was 
shiftless. It was whispered of them by their neigh- 
bors that they couldn’t get credit for “two bits” 
except at the saloons. 

A relative had sent the woman ten dollars for a 
Christmas gift. She had gone wild with joy. 
Ten dollars ! It was wealth. For once the 
children should have a real Christmas — a good 
dinner, toys, candy ! Of all things, there should 
be a wax doll for the little girl who had cried for 
one every Christmas, and never even had one in 
her arms. Just for this one time they should be 
happy — like other children; and she should be 
happy in their happiness — like other mothers. 
What did it matter that she had only two calico 
dresses and one pair of shoes, half-soled at that, 
and capped across the toes ? 

Her husband had entered into her childish joy. 
He was kind and affectionate — when he was sober. 
That was why she had never had the heart to 
leave him. He was one of those men who are 


33 


THE BLOW-OUT AT JENKINS’S GROCERY 

always needing, pleading for — and, alas ! receiv- 
ing — forgiveness; one of those men whom their 
women love passionately and cling to forever. 

He promised her solemnly that he would not 
drink a drop that Christmas — so solemnly that 
she believed him. He had helped her to wash 
the dishes and put the children to bed. And he 
had kissed her. 

Her face had been radiant when they came into 
Mr. Jenkins’s store. That poor, gray face with its 
sunken cheeks and eyes ! They bought a turkey — 
and with what anxious care she had selected it, 
testing its tenderness, balancing it on her bony 
hands, examining the scales with keen, narrowed 
eyes when it was weighed; and a quart of cran- 
berries, a can of mince meat and a can of plum 
pudding, a head of celery, a pint of Olympia 
oysters, candy, nuts — and then the toys ! She 
trembled with eagerness. Her husband stood 
watching her, smiling good-humoredly, his hands 
in his pockets. Mr. Jenkins indulged in some 
serious speculation as to where the money was 
coming from to pay for all this “blow-out”. He 
set his lips together and resolved that the ‘ ‘blow- 
out’ ’ should not leave the store, under any amount 
of promises, until the cash paying for it was in 
his cash-drawer. 

Suddenly the band began to play across the 
street. The man threw up his head like an old 
34 


THE BLOW-OUT AT JENKINS’ S GROCERY 


war-horse at the sound of a bugle note. A fire 
came into his eyes; into his face a flush of excite- 
ment. He walked down to the window and 
stood looking out, j'ingling some keys in his 
pocket. He breathed quickly. 

After a few moments he went back to his wife. 
Mr. Jenkins had stepped away to speak to an- 
other customer. 

“Say, Molly, old girl,” he said affectionately, 
without looking at her, “yuh can spare me 
enough out o’ that tenner to git a plug o’ tobaccer 
for Christmas, can’t yuh? ’’ 

“W’y — I guess so’’ said she slowly. The 
first cloud fell on her happy face. 

“Well, jest let me have it, an’ I’ll run out an’ 
be back before yuh’ re ready to pay for these 
here things. I’ll only git two bits’ worth.’’ 

She turned very pale. 

“ Can’t yuh git it here. Mart? ’’ 

“No,’’ he said in a whisper; “his’n ain’t fit to 
chew. I’ll be right back, Molly — honest.’’ 

She stood motionless, her eyes cast down, 
thinking. If she refused, he would be angry and 
remain away from home all the next day to pay 
her for the insult. If she gave it to him — well, 
she would have to take the chances. But oh, her 
hand shook as she drew the small gold piece from 
her shabby purse and reached it to him. His 
big, warm hand closed over it. 

35 


THE BEOW-OUT AT jENKINS’S GROCERY 

She looked up at him. Her eyes spoke the 
passionate prayer that her lips could not utter. 

“Don’t stay long, Mart,’’ she whispered, not 
daring to say more. 

“I won’t, Molly,’’ he whispered back. “I’ll 
hurry up. Git anything yuh want.’’ 

She finished her poor shopping. Mr. Jenkins 
wrapped everything up neatly. Then he rubbed 
his hands together and looked at her, and said: 
“Well, there now. Mis’ Dupen.’’ 

“I — jest lay ’em all together there on the 
counter,’’ she said hesitatingly. “I’ll have to 
wait till Mart comes back before I can pay yuh.’’ 

“I see him go into the s’loon over there,” 
piped out the errand boy shrilly. 

At the end of half an hour she climbed upon 
the high stool and fixed her eyes upon the saloon 
opposite and sat there. 

She saw nothing but the glare of those win- 
dows and the light streaming out when the doors 
opened. She heard nothing but the torturing 
blare of the music. After awhile something com- 
menced beating painfully in her throat and tem- 
ples. Her limbs grew stiff — she was scarcely 
conscious that they ached. Once she shuddered 
strongly, as dogs do when they lie in the cold, 
waiting. 

At twelve o’clock Mr. Jenkins touched her 
kindly on the arm. She looked up with a start. 


36 


THE BLOW-OUT AT JENKINS* S GROCERY 

Her face was gray and old; her eyes were almost 
wild in their strained despair. 

“I guess I’ll have to shet up now, Mis’ 
Dupen , ” he said apologetically . “I’m sorry — ’ ’ 

She got down from the stool at once. ‘ ‘ I can’ t 
take them things, ’ ’ she said, almost whispering. 
“I hate to of put yuh to all that trouble of doin’ 
’em up. I thought — but I can’t take ’em. I hope 
yuh won’t mind — very much.’* Her bony 
fingers twisted together under her thin shawl. 

“Oh, that’s all right,’’ said Mr. Jenkins in an 
embarrassed way. She moved stiffly to the door. 
He put out the lights and followed her. He felt 
mean, somehow. For one second he hesitated, 
then he locked the door, and gave it a shake to 
make sure that it was all right. 

“Well,” he said, “good night. I wish you a 
mer — ’ * 

“Good night,” said the woman. She was 
turning away when the doors of the saloon opened 
for two or three men to enter. The music, which 
had ceased for a few minutes, struck up another 
air — a familiar air. 

She burst suddenly into wild and terrible 
laughter. “Oh, my Lord,” she cried out, 
“they’re a-playin’ ‘Home, Sweet Home!’ In 
there! Oh, my Lord I Wouldn't that kill 
yuh!" 


37 







THE TAKIN’ IN OF OED MIS’ TANK 



V-. - 


THE TAKIN’ IN OF OLD MIS’ LANE 


‘ ‘ Huhy ! Huhy ! Pleg take tliat muley cow ! 
Huhy !” 

“What she doin’, maw?” 

“Why, she’s just a-holdin’ her head over the 
bars, an’ a-bawlin’ ! Tryin’ to get into the little 
correll where her ca’f is ! I wish paw ’d of done 
as I told him an’ put her into the up meadow. 
If there’s anything on earth I abominate it’s to 
hear a cow bawl.” 

Mrs. Bridges gathered up several sticks of wood 
from the box in the corner by the stove, and 
going out into the yard, threw them with power- 
ful movements of her bare arm in the direction 
of the bars. The cow lowered her hornless head 
and shook it defiantly at her, but held her ground. 
Isaphene stood in the open door, laughing. She 
was making a cake. She beat the mixture with 
a long-handled tin spoon while watching the 
fruitless attack. She had reddish brown hair 
that swept away from her brow and temples in 
waves so deep you could have lost your finger in 
any one of them; and good, honest gray eyes, 
and a mouth that was worth kissing. She wore 
a blue cotton gown that looked as if it had just 


41 


THE TAKIN’ in op old MIS’ LANE 

left the ironing- table. Her sleeves were rolled to 
her elbows. 

“ It don’t do any good, maw,” she said, as her 
mother returned with a defeated air. “She just 
bawls an’ shakes her head right in your face. 
Look at her !” 

“Oh, I don’t want to look at her. It seems to ' 
me your paw might of drove her to the up 
meadow, seein’s he was goin’ right up by there. 
It ain’t like as if he’d of had to go out o’ his 
way. It aggravates me offul.” 

She threw the last stick of wood into the box, 
and brushed the tiny splinters off her arm and 
sleeves. 

“Well, I guess I might as well string them 
beans for dinner before I clean up.” 

She took a large milkpan, filled with beans, 
from the table and sat down near the window. 

‘ ‘ Isaphene, ’ ’ she said, presently, ‘ ‘ what do you 
say to an organ, an’ a horse an’ buggy ? A horse 
with some style about him, that you could ride or 
drive, an’ that ’u’d always be up when you 
wanted to go to town !’ ’ 

“What do I say?” The girl turned and 
looked at her mother as if she feared one of them 
had lost her senses; then she returned to her 
cake-beating with an air of good-natured disdain. 

‘ ‘ Oh, you can smile an’ turn your head on one 
side, but you’ll whistle another tune before long— 


42 


THE TAKIN’ in of OLD MIs’ LANE 


or I’ll miss my guess. Isaphene, I’ve been savin* 
up chicken an’ butter money ever since we come 
to Puget Sound ; then I’ve always got the money 
for the strawberry crop, an’ for the geese an’ 
turkeys, an’ the calves, an’ so on. Your paw’s 
been real good about such things. ’ ’ 

“I don’t call it bein’ good,” said Isaphene. 
“Why shouldn’t he let you have the money? 
You planted, an’ weeded, an’ picked the straw- 
berries ; an’ you fed an’ set the chickens, an’ 
gethered the eggs ; an’ you’ve had all the tendin’ 
of the geese an’ turkeys an’ calves — to say nothin’ 
of the cows bawlin’ over the bars,” she added, 
with a sly laugh. “I’d say you only had your 
rights when you get the money for such things.” 

“Oh, yes, that’s fine talk.” Mrs. Bridges 
nodded her head with an air of experience. ‘ ‘ But 
it ain’t all men-folks that gives you your rights ; 
so when one does, I say he deserves credit.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t claim anybody ’d been good 
to me just because he give me what I’d worked 
for an’ earned. Now, if he’d give you all the 
money from the potato patch every year, or the 
hay meadow, or anything he’d done all the work- 
in’ with himself — I’d call that good in him. He 
never done anything like that, did he?” 

“No, he never,” replied Mrs. Bridges, testily. 
“An’ what’s more, he ain’t likely to — nor any 
other man I know of! If you get a man that 


43 


THE TAKIN’ in of OLD MIs’ LANE 

gives you all you work for an’ earn, you’ll be 
lucky — with all your airs !” 

“Well, I guess I’ll manage to get my rights, 
somehow,” said Isaphene, beginning to butter 
the cake-pan. 

“Somebody’s cornin’ ! ” exclaimed her mother, 
lowering her voice to a mysterious whisper. 

“Who is it?” Isaphene stood up straight, 
with that little quick beating of mingled pleasure 
and dismay that the cry of company brings to 
country hearts. 

“ I can’tsee. I don’t want to be caught peepin’. 
I can see it’s a woman, though ; she’s just passin’ 
the row of hollyhocks. Can’t you stoop down 
an’ peep ? She won’t see you ’way over there by 
the table.” 

Isaphene stooped and peered cautiously through 
the wild cucumber vines that rioted over the 
kitchen window. 

“Oh, it’s Mis’ Hanna !” 

“ My goodness ! An’ the way this house looks ! 
You’ll have to bring her out here ’n the kitchen, 
too. I s’ pose she’s come to spend the day — she’s 
got her bag with her, ain’t she?” 

“Yes. What’ll we have for dinner? I ain’t 
goin’ to cut this cake for her. I want this for 
Sund’y.” 

“ Why, we’ve got com beef to boil, an’ a head 
o’ cabbage; an’ these here beans ; an’, of course, 


44 


‘the takin’ in of old mis’ lane 

potatoes ; an’ watermelon perserves. An’ you 
can make a custerd pie. I guess that’s a good 
enough dinner for her. There ! She’s knockin’. 
Open the door, can’t you ? Well, if I ever ! 
Took at that grease-spot on the floor !” 

“Well, I didn’t spill it.’’ 

“Who did, then, missy?” 

“ Well, / never.” 

Isaphene went to the front door, returning 
presently with a tall, thin lady. 

“ Here’s Mis’ Hanna, maw,” she said, with the 
air of having made a pleasant discovery. Mrs. 
Bridges got up, greatly surprised, and shook 
hands with her visitor with exaggerated delight. 

“Well, I’ll declare ! It’s really you, is it ? At 
last ! Well, set right down an’ take off your 
things. Isaphene, take Mis’ Hanna’s things. 
My ! ain’t it warm, walkin’ ?” 

“ It is so. ” The visitor gave her bonnet to Isa- 
phene, dropping her black mitts into it after 
rolling them carefully together. “But it’s al- 
ways nice an’ cool in your kitchen.” Her eyes 
wandered about with a look of unabashed curios- 
ity that took in everything. “I brought my 
crochet with me.” 

“I’m glad you did. You’ll have to excuse 
the looks o’ things. Any news?” 

“ None perticular.” Mrs. Hanna began to cro- 


45 


THE TAKIN’ in of old MIS’ LANE 

chet, holding the work close to her face. “Ain’t 
it too bad about poor, old Mis’ Lane?’’ 

“What about her?’’ Mrs. Bridges snapped a 
bean-pod into three pieces, and looked at her vis- 
itor with a kind of pleased expectancy — as if al- 
most any news, however dreadful, would be 
welcome as a relief to the monotony of existence. 
“ Is she dead ?’’ 

“No, she ain’t dead ; but the poor, old crea- 
ture ’d better be. She’s got to go to the poor- 
farm,, after all.” 

There was silence in the big kitchen, save for 
the rasp of the crochet needle through the wool 
and the snapping of the beans. A soft wind came 
in the window and drummed with the lightest ol 
touches on Mrs. Bridges’s temples. It brought all 
the sweets of the old-fashioned flower-garden with 
it — the mingled breaths of mignonette, stock, 
sweet lavender, sweet peas and clove pinks. The 
whole kitchen was filled with the fragrance. And 
what a big, cheerful kitchen it was ! Mrs. Bridges 
contrasted it unconsciously with the poor-farm 
kitchen, and almost shivered, warm though the 
day was. 

“What’s her childern about?’’ she asked, 
sharply. 

“ Oh, her childern !’’ replied Mrs. Hanna, with 
a contemptuous air. “What does her childern 
amount to, I’d like to know.” 

46 


'THK TAKIN’ in op old MIS’ LANP 

“Her son ’s got a good, comf ’table house an’ 
farm.’’ 

“Well, what if he has? He got it with his 
wife, didn’t he? An’ M’lissy won’t let his poor, 
old mother set foot inside the house ! I don’t say 
she is a pleasant body to have about— she’s cross 
an’ sick most all the time, an’ childish. But 
that ain’t sayin’ her childem oughtn’t to put up 
with her disagreeableness.’’ 

“She’s got a married daughter, ain’t she?’’ 

“Yes, she’s got a married daughter.’’ Mrs. 
Hanna clo.sed her lips tightly together and looked 
as if she might say something, if she chose, that 
would create a sensation. 

“Well, ain’t she got a good enough home to 
keep her mother in ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Yes, she has. But she got her home along 
with her husband, an’ he won’t have the old soul 
any more ’n M’lissy would.’’ 

There was another silence. Isaphene had put 
the cake in the oven. She knelt on the floor and 
opened the door very softly now and then, to see 
that it was not browning too fast. The heat of 
the oven had crimsoned her face and arms. 

“ Guess you’d best put a piece o’ paper on top 
o’ that cake,” said her mother. “It smells kind 
o’ burny like.” 

“ It’s all right, maw.” 

Mrs. Bridges looked out the window. 

47 


THE TAKIN’ in OE old MIS’ LANE 

• Ain’t my flowers doin’ well, though, Mis’ 
Hanna?” 

“They are that. When I come up the walk 
I couldn’t help thinkin’ of poor, old Mis’ Lane.” 

‘‘What’s that got to do with her?” Resent- 
ment bristled in Mrs. Bridges’s tone and look. 

Mrs. Hanna stopped crocheting, but held her 
hands stationary, almost level with her eyes, and 
looked over them in surprise at her questioner. 

‘‘Why, she ust to live here, you know.” 

“ She did ! In this house?” 

‘‘Why, yes. Didn’t you know that? Oh, they 
ust to be right well ofi" in her husband’s time. I 
visited here consid’rable. My ! the good things 
she always had to eat. I can taste ’em yet.” 

‘‘ Hunh ! I’m sorry I can’t give you as good 
as she did,” said Mrs. Bridges, stiffly. 

‘‘Well, as if you didn’t! You set a beautiful 
table, Mis’ Bridges, an’, what’s more, that’s your 
reputation all over. Everybody says that about 
you.” 

Mrs. Bridges smiled deprecatingly, with a slight 
blush of pleasure. 

“ They do. Mis’ Bridges. I just told you about 
Mis’ Lane because you’d never think it now of 
the poor, old creature. An’ such flowers as she 
ust to have on both sides that walk 1 Lark-spurs, 
an’ sweet-williams, an’ bach’ lor’ s-buttons, an’ 
mournin’ -widows, an’ pumgranates, an’ all kinds. 

48 


THE TAKIN’ in of old MIS’ LANE 


Guess you didn’t know she set out that pink cab- 
bage-rose at the north end o’ the front porch, did 
you ? An’ that hop-vine that you’ve got trained 
over your parlor window — set that out, too. An’ 
that row o’ young alders between here an’ the 
barn — she set ’em all out with her own hands ; dug 
the holes herself, an’ all. It’s funny she never 
told you she lived here.” 

“Yes, it is,” said Mrs. Bridges, slowly and 
thoughtfully. 

“It’s a wonder to me she never broke down 
an’ cried when she was visitin’ here. She can’t 
so much as mention the place without cryin’.” 

A dull red came into Mrs. Bridges’s face. 

“ She never visited here.” 

“Never visited here!” Mrs. Hanna laid her 
crochet and her hands in her lap, and stared. 
“Why, she visited ev’ry where. That’s how she 
managed to keep out o’ the poor-house so long. 
Ev’rybody was reel consid’rate about invitin’ her. 
But I expect she didn’t like to come here because 
she thought so much o’ the place.” 

Isaphene looked over her shoulder at her 
mother, but the look was not returned. The 
beans were sputtering nervously into the pan. 

“Ain’t you got about enough, maw?” she 
said. “ That pan seems to be gettin’ hefty.” 

“Yes, I guess.” She got up, brushing the 
strings off her apron, and set the pan on the 


49 


THE takin’ in of old mis* eane 


table. “ I’ll watch the cake now, Isaphene. You 
put the beans on in the pot to boil. Put a piece 
o’ that salt pork in with ’em. Better get ’em on 
right away. It’s pretty near eleven. Ain’t this 
oven too hot with the door shet ?” 

Then the pleasant preparations for dinner went 
on. The beans soon commenced to boil, and an 
appetizing odor floated through the kitchen. The 
potatoes were pared — big, white fellows, smooth 
and long — with a sharp, thin knife, round and 
round and round, each without a break until the 
whole paring had curled itself about Isaphene’s 
pretty arm almost to the elbow. The cabbage was 
chopped finely for the cold-slaw, and the vinegar 
and butter set on the stove in a saucepan to heat. 
Then Mrs. Bridges “set” the table, covering it 
first with a red cloth having a white border and 
fringe. In the middle of the table she placed an 
uncommonly large, six-bottled caster. 

“ I guess you’ll excuse a red tablecloth, Mis’ 
Hanna. The men-folks get their shirt-sleeves so 
dirty out in the fields that you can’t keep a white 
one clean no time.” 

“ I use red ones myself most of the time,” re- 
plied Mrs. Hanna, crocheting industriously. ‘ ‘ It 
saves washin’. I guess poor Mis’ Tane ’ll have 
to see the old place after all these years, whether 
she wants or not. They’ll take her right past 
here to the poor-farm.” 


50 


THE TAKIN’ in of old MIS* LANE 


Mrs. Bridges set on the table a white plate 
holding a big square of yellow butter, and stood 
looking through the open door, down the path 
with its tall hollyhocks and scarlet poppies on 
both sides. Between the house and the barn 
some wild mustard had* grown, thick and tall, 
and was now drifting, like a golden cloud, against 
the pale blue sky. Butterflies were throbbing 
through the air, and grasshoppers were crackling 
everywhere. It was all very pleasant and peace- 
ful ; while the comfortable house and barns, the 
wide fields stretching away to the forest, and the 
cattle feeding on the hillside added an appear- 
ance of prosperity. Mrs. Bridges wondered how 
she herself would feel — after having loved the 
place — riding by to the poor-farm. Then she 
pulled herself together and said, sharply : 

“I’m afraid you feel a draught, Mis’ Hanna, 
a-settin’ so dost to the door.’’ 

“Oh, my, no; I like it. I like lots o’ fresh 
air. Can’ t get it any too fresh for me. If I didn’ t 
have six childem an’ my own mother to keep, I’d 
take her myself.’’ 

“Take who?’’ Mrs. Bridges’s voice rasped 
as she asked the question. Isaphene paused on 
her way to the pantry, and looked at Mrs. Hanna 
with deeply thoughtful eyes. 

“Why, Mis’ Tane — who else? — before I’d let 
her go to the poor-farm.’’ 


51 


THE takin’ in of old mis’ lane 

“Well, I think her childem ought to be made to 
take care of her!” Mrs. Bridges went on setting 
the table with brisk, angry movements. ‘ ‘ That’s 
what I think about it. The law ought to take 
holt of it.” 

“Well, you see the law has took holt of it,” 
said Mrs. Hanna, with a grim smile. ‘ ‘ It seems 
a shame that there ain’t somebody in the neigh- 
borhood that ’u’d take her in. She ain’t much 
expense, but a good deal o’ trouble. She’s sick, 
in an’ out o’ bed, nigh onto all the time. My 
opinion is she’s been soured by all her troubles ; 
an’ that if somebody ’u’d only take her in an’ be 
kind to her, her temper’ ment ’u’d emprove up 
wonderful. She’s always mighty grateful for 
ev’ry little chore you do her. It just makes my 
heart ache to think o’ her a-havin’ to go to the 
poor-house 1” 

Mrs. Bridges lifted her head ; all the softness 
and irresolution went out of her face. 

“Well, I’m sorry for her,” she said, with an 
air of dismissing a disagreeable subject; “but 
the world’s full o’ troubles, an’ if you cried over 
all o’ them you’d be a-cryin’ all the time. Isa- 
phene, you go out an’ blow that dinner-horn. I 
see the men-folks ’av’ got the horses about fod- 
dered. What did you do ?” she cried out, sharply. 
“Drop a smoothin’-iron on your hand? Well, 


52 


The takin’ in of old mis’ lane 


my goodness ! Why don’t you keep your eyes 
about you? You’ll go an’ get a cancer yet !” 

“ I’m thinkin’ about buyin’ a horse an’ buggy,” 
she announced, with stem triumph, when the girl 
had gone out. ‘ ‘ An’ an organ. Isaphene’s been 
wantin’ one most oflful. I’ve give up her paw’s 
ever gettin’ her one. First a new harrow, an’ 
then a paten’ rake, an’ then a seed-drill — an’ then 
my mercy” — imitating a musculine voice — “he 
ain’t got any money left for silliness ! But I’ve 
got some laid by. I’d like to see his eyes when 
he comes home an’ finds a bran new buggy with 
a top an’ all, an’ a horse that he can’t hetch to a 
plow, no matter how bad he wants to ! I ain’t 
sure but I’ll get a phaeton.” 

‘‘They ain’t so strong, but they’re handy to 
get in an’ out of — ’specially for old, trembly 
knees. ’ ’ 

“ I ain’t so old that I’m trembly !” 

‘‘Oh, my — no,” said Mrs. Hanna, with a little 
start. “I was just thinkin’ mebbe sometimes 
you’d go out to the poor-farm an’ take poor, old 
Mis’ Lane for a little ride. It ain’t more’n five 
miles from here, is it? She ust to have a horse 
an’ buggy o’ her own. Somehow, I can’t get her 
off o’ my mind at all to-day. I just heard about 
her as I was a-startin’ for your house.” 

The men came to the house. They paused on 
the back porch to clean their boots on the scraper 

53 


THE TAKIN’ in of old MIS* LANE 


and wash their hands and faces with water dipped 
from the rain-barrel. Their faces shone like 
brown marble when they came in. 


It was five o’clock when Mrs. Hanna, with a 
sigh, began rolling the lace she had crocheted 
around the spool, preparatory to taking her de- 
parture. 

“Well,” she said, “I must go. I had noidy 
it was so late. How the time does go, a- talkin’. 
I’ve had a right nice time. Just see how well 
I’ve done — crocheted full a yard since dinner- 
time ! My ! how pretty that hop-vine looks. It 
makes awful nice shade, too. I guess when Mis’ 
Lane planted it she thought she’d be settin’ under 
it herself to-day — she took such pleasure in it.” 

The ladies were sitting on the front porch. It 
was cool and fragrant out there. The shadow of 
the house reached almost to the gate now. The 
bees had been drinking too many sweets — greedy 
fellows ! — and were lying in the red poppies, dron- 
ing stupidly. A soft wind was blowing from Pu- 
get Sound and turning over the clover leaves, 
making here a billow of dark green and there one 
of light green ; it was setting loose the perfume 
of the blossoms, too, and sifting silken thistle- 
needles through the air. Along the fence was a 


54 


THE TAKIN’ in op OED MIS’ EANE 


hedge, eight feet high, of the beautiful ferns that 
grow luxuriantly in western Washington. The 
pasture across the lane was a tangle of royal 
color, being massed in with golden-rod, fire-weed, 
steeple-bush, yarrow, and large field-daisies ; 
the cotton- woods that lined the creek at the side 
of the house were snowing. Here and there the 
sweet twin-sister of the steeple-bush lifted her pale 
and fluffy plumes ; and there was one lovely, 
lavender company of wild asters. 

Mrs. Bridges arose and followed her guest into 
the spare bedroom. 

‘ ‘ When they goin’ to take her to the poor-farm ?’ ' 
she asked, abruptly. 

“Day after to-morrow. Ain’t it awful? It 
just makes me sick. I couldn’t of eat a bite o’ 
dinner if I’d stayed at home, just for thinkin’ 
about it. They say the poor, old creature ain’t 
done nothin’ but cry an’ moan ever since she 
knowed she’d got to go.” 

“Here’s your bag,” said Mrs. Bridges. “Do 
you want I should tie your veil ?” 

“No, thanks ; I guess I won’t put it on. If I 
didn’t have such a big fam’ly an’ my own mother 
to keep, I’d take her in myself before I’d see her 
go to the poor-house. If I had a small fam’ly 
an’ plenty o’ room, I declare my conscience 
wouldn’t let me sleep nights.” 


55 


THE TAKIN’ in of old MIS’ LANE 


A deep red glow spread over Mrs. Bridges’s 
face. 

“ Well, I guess you needn’t to keep a-kintin’ for 
me to take her,” she said, sharply. 

“ You!” Mrs. Hanna uttered the word in a 
tone that was an unintentional insult ; in fact, 
Mrs. Bridges aflBrmed afterward that her look of 
astonishment, and, for that matter, her whole air 
of dazed incredulity were insulting. “ I never 
once thought o’ you” she said, with an earnest- 
ness that could not be doubted. 

“Why not o’ me?” demanded Mrs. Bridges, 
showing something of her resentment. “ What 
you been talkin’ an’ harpin’ about her all day 
for, if you wasn’t hintin’ for me to take her in?” 

“ I never thought o’ such a thing,” repeated 
her visitor, still looking rather helplessly dazed. 

* ‘ I talked about it because it was on my mind, 
heavy, too ; an’ , I guess, because I wanted to talk 
my conscience down.” 

Mrs. Bridges cooled off a little and folded her 
hands over the bedpost. 

“Well, if you wasn’t hintin’,” she said, in a 
conciliatory tone, “it’s all right. You kep’ 
harpin’ on the same string till I thought you was ; 
an’ it riles me offul to be hinted at. I’ll take 
anything right out to my fact, so’s I can answer 
it, but I won’t be hinted at. “ But why” — hav- 
ing rid herself of the grievance she at once swung 
56 


THB TAKIN’ in op old MIS* LAN® 


around to the insult — “why didn't you think o’ 
me ?” 

Mrs. Hanna cleared her throat and began to 
unroll her mitts. 

“Well, I don’t know just why,” she replied, 
helplessly. She drew the mitts on, smoothing 
them well up over her thin wrists. ‘ ‘ I don’ t know 
why, I’m sure. I’d thought o’ most ev’rybody 
in the neighborhood — but you never come into 
my head onct. I was as innocent o’ hintin’ as a 
babe unborn.” 

Mrs. Bridges drew a long breath noiselessly. 

“Well,” she said, absent-mindedly, “come 
again. Mis’ Hanna. An’ be sure you always 
fetch your work an’ stay the afternoon.” 

“Well, I will. But it’s your turn to come 
now. Where ’ s Isaphene ?’ ’ 

“ I guess she’s makin’ a fire ’n the cook-stove 
to get supper by.” 

“ Well, tell her to come over an’ stay all night 
with Julia some night.” 

“Well— I will.” 

Mrs. Bridges went into the kitchen and sat 
down, rather heavily, in a chair. Her face wore 
a puzzled expression. 

“ Isaphene, did you hear what we was a-sayin’ 
in the bedroom ?” 

“ Yes, most of it, I guess.” 

“ Well, what do you s’ pose was the reason she 


57 


THE TAKIN’ in OE OLD MIS’ LANE 

never thouglit o’ me a-takin’ Mis’ Lane in ? Says 
she’d thought o’ ev’rybody else.” 

“Why, you never thought o’ takin’ her in 
yourself, did you?” said Isaphene, turning down 
the damper of the stove with a clatter. “ I don’t 
see how anybody else ’u’d think of it when you 
didn’t yourself.” 

‘‘ Well, don’t you think it was ofiful impadent 
in her to say that, anyhow ?’ ’ 

“ No, I don’t. She told the truth.” 

” Why ought they to think o’ ev’rybody takin’ 
her exceptin’ me, I’d like to know.” 

“ Because ev’rybody else, I s’pose, has thought 
of it theirselves. The neighbors have all been 
chippin’ in to help her for years. You never 
done nothin’ for her, did you? You never in- 
vited her to visit here, did you?” 

‘^No, I never. But that ain’t no sayin’ I 
wouldn’t take her as quick ’s the rest of ’em. 
They ain’t none of ’em takin’ her in very fast, 
be they?” 

“No, they ain’t,” said Isaphene, facing her 
mother with a steady look. “They ain’t a one 
of ’em but ’s got their hands full — no spare room, 
an’ lots o’ childern or their folks to take care of.” 

‘ ‘ Hunh !’ ’ said Mrs. Bridges. She began chop- 
ping cold boiled beef for hash. 

“I don’t believe I’ll sleep to-night for thinkin* 
about it,” she said, after a while. 

58 


THE TAKIN’ in of OED MIS’ EANE 


“ I won’t neither, maw. I wish she wasn’t 
goin’ right by here.” 

“So do I.” 

After a long silence Mrs. Bridges said — “I 
don’t suppose your paw’d hear to us a-takin’ her 
in.” 

“I guess he’d hear to ’t if we would,” said 
Isaphene, dryly. 

” Well, we can’t do’t ; that’s all there is about 
it,” announced Mrs. Bridges, with a great air of 
having made up her mind. Isaphene did not re- 
ply. She was slicing potatoes to fry, and she 
seemed to agree silently with her mother’s deci- 
sion. Presently, however, Mrs. Bridges said, in 
a less determined tone — “ There’s no place to put 
her in, exceptin’ the spare room — an’ we can’t 
get along without that, noways.” 

” No,” said Isaphene, in a non-committal tone. 

Mrs. Bridges stopped chopping and looked 
thoughtfully out of the door. 

‘ ‘ There’s this room openin’ out o’ the kitchen, ’ ’ 
she said, slowly. “It’s nice an* big an’ sunny. 
It ’u’d be handy ’n winter, bein’ right off o’ the 
kitchen. But it ain’t furnished up.” 

“No,” said Isaphene, “it ain’t.” 

“An’ I know your paw’d never furnish it.” 

Isaphene laughed. “No, I guess not,” she 
said. 

“ Well, there’s no use a-thinkin’ about it, Isa- 
59 


THE TAKIN’ in OE old MIS* EANE 

phene; we just can’t take her. Better get them 
potatoes on; I see the men-folks cornin’ up to the 
barn.” 

The next morning after breakfast Isaphene 
said suddenly, as she stood washing dishes — 
“ Maw, I guess you’d better take the organ money 
an’ furnish up that room.” 

Mrs. Bridges turned so sharply she dropped 
the turkey-wing with which she was polishing 
the stove. 

“You don’t never mean it,” she gasped. 

“Yes, I do. I know we’d both feel better to 
take her in than to take in an organ” — they both 
laughed rather foolishly at the poor joke. “ You 
can furnish the room real comf ’table with what 
it ’u’d take to buy an organ; an’ we can get the 
horse an’ buggy, too.” 

“ Oh, Isaphene, I’ve never meant but what you 
should have an organ. I know you’d learn fast. 
You’d soon get so’s you could play ‘ Tilly Dale’ 
an’ ‘ Hazel Dell ; ’ an’ you might get so’s you 
could play ‘ General Persifer F. Smith’s Grand 
March.’ No, I won’t never spend that money 
for nothin’ but an organ — so you can just shet 
up about it.” 

“I want a horse an’ buggy worse, maw,” said 
Isaphene, after a brief but fierce struggle with 
the dearest desire of her heart. “We can get a 
horse that I can ride, too. An’ we’ll get a 
6o 


THE TAKIN’ in OE OLD MIS’ LANE 


phaeton, so’s we can take Mis’ I^ane to church 
an’ around.” Then she added, with a regular 
masterpiece of diplomacy— “ We’ll show the 
neighbors that when we do take people in, we 
take ’em in all over !” 

“Oh, Isaphene,” said her mother, weakly, 
“wouldn’t it just astonish ’em !” 


It was ten o’clock of the following morning 
when Isaphene ran in and announced that she 
heard wheels coming up the lane. Mrs. Bridges 
paled a little and breathed quickly as she put on 
her bonnet and went out to the gate. 

A red spring- wagon was coming slowly toward 
her, drawn by a single, bony horse. The driver 
was half asleep on the front seat. Behind, in a 
low chair, sat old Mrs. Lane ; she was stooping 
over, her elbows on her knees, her gray head 
bowed. 

Mrs. Bridges held up her hand, and the driver 
pulled in the unreluctant horse. 

“ How d’you do, Mis’ Lane ? I want that you 
should come in an’ visit me a while.” 

The old creature lifted her trembling head and 
looked at Mrs. Bridges; then she saw the old 
house, half hidden by vines and flowers, and her 
dim eyes filled with bitter tears. 

6i 


THE TAKIN’ in op OED MIS’ LANE 


“We ain’t got time to stop, ma’am,” said 
the driver, politely. “I’m a takin’ her to the 
county,” he added, in a lower tone, but not so low 
that the old woman did not hear. 

“You’ll have to make time,” said Mrs. Bridges, 
bluntly. “You get down an’ help her out. 
You don’t have to wait. When I’m ready for 
her to go to the county. I’ll take her myself.” 

Not understanding in the least, but realizing, 
as he said afterwards, that she “meant business” 
and wasn’t the kind to be fooled with, the man 
obeyed with alacrity. 

“Now, you lean all your heft on me,” said 
Mrs. Bridges, kindly. She put her arm around 
the old woman and led her up the hollyhock path, 
and through the house into the pleasant kitchen. 

“ Isaphene, you pull that big chair over here 
where it’s cool. Now, Mis’ I^ane, you set right 
down an’ rest.” 

Mrs. I<ane wiped the tears from her face with 
an old cotton handkerchief. She tried to speak, 
but the sobs had to be swallowed down too fast. 
At last she said, in a choked voice — “ It’s awful 
good in you — to let me see the old place — once 
more. The Tord bless you — for it. But I’m 
most sorry I stopped — seems now as if I — just 
couldn't go on.” 

“Well, you ain’t goin’ on,” said Mrs. Bridges, 
while Isaphene went to the door and stood look- 
62 


'THE TAKIN’ in op OLD MIS’ LANE 

ing toward the hill with drowned eyes. “This 
is our little joke — Isaphene’s an’ mine. This’ll 
be your home as long as it’s our’n. An’ you’re 
goin’ to have this nice big room right off o’ the 
kitchen, as soon ’s we can furnish it up. An’ 
we’re goin’ to get a horse an’ buggy — a low 
so’s you can get in an’ out easy like — an’ 
take you to church an’ all around.” 


That night, after Mrs. Bridges had put Mrs. 
Lane to bed and said good-night to her, she went 
out on the front porch and sat down ; but pres- 
ently, remembering that she had not put a candle 
in the room, she went back, opening the door 
noiselessly, not to disturb her. Then she stood 
perfectly still. The old creature had got out of 
bed and was kneeling beside it, her face buried 
in her hands. 

“ Oh, Lord God,” she was saying aloud, “ bless 
these kind people — bless ’em, oh. Lord God ! 
Hear a poor, old mis’rable soul’s prayer, an’ bless 
’em ! An’ if they’ve ever done a sinful thing, 
oh. Lord God, forgive ’em for it, because they’ve 
kep’ me out o’ the poor-house — ” 

Mrs. Bridges closed the door, and stood sobbing 
as if her heart must break. 


63 


THE TAKIN’ in of 0I<D MIS’ EANE 

“What’s the matter, maw?’’ said Isaphene, 
coming up suddenly. 

“Never you mind what’s the matter,’’ said her 
mother, sharply, to conceal her emotion. “ You 
get to bed, an’ don’t bother your head about 
what’s the matter of me.” 

Then she went down the hall and entered her 
own room ; and Isaphene heard the key turned 
in the look. 


64 


THE MANEUVERING OF MRS. SYBERT 





• I 



.1 


THE MANEUVERING OF MRS. SYBERT 


“Why, mother, where are you a-goin’, all 
dressed up so ?’' 

Mr. Sybert stood in the bedroom door and 
stared at his wife’s ample back. There was a 
look of surprise in his blue eyes. Mrs. Sybert 
stooped before the bureau, and opened the middle 
drawer, taking hold of both handles and watch- 
ing it carefully as she drew it toward her. Some- 
times it came out crookedly; and every one knows 
that a drawer that opens crookedly, will, in time, 
strain and rub the best bureau ever made. From 
a red pasteboard box that had the picture of a 
pretty actress on the cover, Mrs. Sybert took a 
linen handkerchief that had been ironed until it 
shone like satin. After smoothing an imaginary 
wrinkle out of it, she put it into her pocket, set 
her bonnet a little further over her forehead, 
pushing a stray lock sternly where it belonged, 
adjusted her bonnet-strings, which were so wide 
and so stiff that they pressed her ears away from 
her head, giving her a bristling appearance, and 
buttoned her gloves with a hair-pin ; then, hav- 
ing gained time and decided upon a reply, she 
said, cheerfully, “What’s that, father?” 

67 


THE MANEUVERING OF MRS. SYBERT 


“Well, it took you a right smart spell to 
answer, didn’t it? I say, where are you a-goin’, 
all dressed up so?” 

Mrs. Sybert took her black silk bag with round 
spots brocaded upon it, and put its ribbons 
leisurely over her arm. “I’m a-goin’ to see 
Mis’ Nesley,” she said. 

Her husband’s face reddened. “ What’s that 
you say, mother? You’re a-goin’ to do what? 
I reckon I’m a-goin’ a little deef.” 

“I’m a-goin’ to see Mis’ Nesley.” Mrs. Sybert 
spoke calmly. No one would have suspected 
that she was reproaching herself for not getting 
out of the house ten minutes sooner. “He 
never’d ’a’ heard a thing about it,” she was 
thinking ; but she looked straight into his eyes. 
Her eyelids did not quiver. 

The red in Mr. Sybert’s face deepened. He 
stood in the door, so she could not pass. Indeed, 
she did not try. Mrs. Sybert had not studied 
signs for nothing during the thirty years she had 
been a wife. “ I reckon you’re a-foolin’, mother,” 
he said. “Just up to some o’ your devilment !” 

“ No, I ain’t up to no devilment, father,” she 
said, still calmly. “You’d best let me by, now, 
so’s I can go ; it’s half after two.” 

“D’you mean to say that you’re a-ne’rnest ? 
A-talkin’ about goin’ to see that hussy of a Mis’ 
Nesley?” 


68 


THE MANEUVERING OP MRS. SYBERT 


“ Yes, I’m a-ne’mest, ” said Mrs. Sybert, firmly. 
“Sbe ain’t a hussy, as I know of. What you 
got agin ’er, I’d like to know ?” 

“/ ain’t got an5’thing agin ’er. Now, what’s 
the sense o’ you’re a-pretendin’ you don’t know 
the talk about ’er, mother?” Mr. Sybert’s tone 
had changed slightly. He did not like the poise 
of his wife’s body; it bespoke determination — 
a fight to the finish if necessary. “You know 
she’s be’n the town talk fer five years. Your 
own tawngue hez run on about ’er like’s if ’t was 
split in the middle an’ loose at both en’s. There 
wa’n’t a woman in town that spoke to ’er” 

“There was men, though, that did,” feaid Mrs. 
Sybert, calmly. “I rec’lect bein’ in at Mis’ 
Carney’s one day, an’ seein’ you meet ’er opposite 
an’ take off your hat to ’er — bowin’ an’ scrapin’ 
right scrumptious like.” 

Mr. Sybert changed his position uneasily, and 
cleared his throat. “Well, that’s diffrent,” he 
said. “I ust to know ’er before ’er husband 
died” 

“ Well, I ust to know ’er, then, too,” said Mrs. 
Sybert, quietly. 

“Well, you hed to stop speakin’ to ’er after 
she got to actin’ up so, but it wa’n’t so easy fer 
me to stop biddin’ ’er the time o’ day.” 

‘ ‘ Why not ?’ ’ said Mrs. Sybert, stolidly. 

“ Why not !” repeated her husband, loudly ; he 

69 


THE MANEUVERING OF MRS. SYBERT 


was losing his temper. “What’s the sense o’ 
your actin’ the fool so, mother ? Why, if I’d ’a’ 
set myself up as bein’ too virtjus to speak to ’er 
ev’ry man in town ’u’d ’a’ be’n blagg’ardin’ me 
about bein’ so mighty good !’’ 

“ Why sh'u'dn'tyoM be so mighty good, father ? 
You expect me to be, I notice.” 

Mr. Sybert choked two or three times. His 
face was growing purplish. 

“ Oh, damn he burst out. Then he looked 
frightened. “Now, see here, mother! You’re 
aggravatin’ me awful. You know as well as me 
that men ain’t expected to be as good all their 
lives as women ’’ 

“ Why ain’t they expected to?’’ Mrs. Sybert’s 
tone and look were stern. 

“ I don’t know why they ain’t, mother, but I 
know they ain't expected to — an’ I know they 
ain’t as good, ’ither.’’ This last was a fine bit 
of diplomacy. But it was wasted. 

“ They ain’t as good, aigh? Well, the reason 
they ain’t as good is just because they ain’t ex- 
pected to be I That’s just the reason. You can’t 
get around that, can you, father?” 

Evidently he could not. 

“An’ now,” continued Mrs. Sybert, “ that she’s 
up an’ married Mr. Nesley an’ wants to live a 
right life, I’m a-goin’ to see her.” 

“ How d’you know she wants to live a right 
life?” 


70 


The maneuvering op MRS. SYBERT 


“I don’t know it, father. I just reckon she 
does. When you wanted I sh’u’d marry you, 
my father shook his head, an’ says — ‘ Lucindy, I 
do’ know what to say. John’s be’n a mighty fast 
young fello’ to give a good girl to fer the askin’,’ 
but I says — ‘Well, father, I reckon he wants to 
start in an’ live a right life now.’ An’ so I reckon 
that about Mis’ Nesley.” 

“ God A’mighty, mother !” exclaimed Mr. Sy- 
bert, violently. “That’s diflf’ rent. Them things 
ain’t counted the same in men. Most all men 
nowadays sow their wild oats an’ then settle down, 
an’ ain’t none the worse for it. It just helps ’em 
to appreciate good women, an’ to make good 
husbands.’’ 

“Well, I reckon Mis’ Nesley knows how to ap- 
preciate a good man by this time,’’ said Mrs. 
Sybert, with unintentional irony. “I reckon 
she’s got all her wild oats sowed, an’ is ready to 
settle down an’ make a good wife. So I’m goin’ 
to see ’er. Let me by, father. I’ve fooled a ha’f 
an hour away now, when I’d ort to ’a’ be’n on 
the road there.’’ 

“Now, see here, mother. You ain’t goin’ a 
step. The whole town ’s excited over a nice man 
like Mr. Nesley a-throwin’ hisself away on a no- 
account woman like her, an’ you sha’n’t be seen 
a-goin’ there an’ upholdin’ her.’’ 

Mrs. Sybert looked long and steadily into her 

71 


THE MANEUVERING OE MRS. SYBERT 


husband’s eyes. It was her policy to fight until 
she began to lose ground, and then to quietly turn 
her forces to maneuvering. “ I reckon,” she was 
now reflecting; “it’s about time to begin ma- 
neuv’rin’.” 

‘‘Well, father,” she said, mildly; ‘‘I’ve made 
up my mind to go an’ see Mis’ Nesley an’ encour- 
age her same’s I w’u’d any man that wanted to 
live better. An’ I’m a-goin’.” 

‘‘You ain't a-goin’!” thundered Mr. Sybert. 
‘‘ I forbid you to budge a step 1 You sha’n’t dis- 
grace yourself, Mrs. Sybert, if you do want to, 
while you’re my wife I” 

Mrs. Sybert untied her bonnet strings, and laid 
her bag on the foot of the bed. ‘‘All right, 
father,” she said, ‘‘ I won’t go till you tell me I 
can. I always hev tried to do just as you wanted 
I sh’u’d.” 

She went into another room to take off her best 
dress. Mr. Sybert stood staring after her, speech- 
less. He had the dazed look of a cat that falls 
from a great height and alights, uninjured, upon 
its feet. The maneuvering had commenced. 

Mr. Sybert spent the afternoon at the postofl5ce 
grocery store. It was a pleasant place to sit. 
There was always a cheerful fire in the rusty box- 
stove in the back room, and there were barrels and 
odds and ends of chairs scattered around, whereon 
men who had an hour to squander might sit and 

72 


THE) MANEUVERING OP MRS. SYBERT 

talk over the latest scandal. Men, as it is well 
known, are above the petty gossip as to servants 
and best gowns which women enjoy ; but, with- 
out scruple or conscience, they will talk away a 
woman’s character, even when they see her strug- 
gling to live down a misfortune or sin and begin a 
new life. There are many characters talked away 
in the back rooms of grocery stores. 

It was six o’clock when he went home. As he 
went along the narrow plank walk, he thought of 
the good supper that would be awaiting him, and 
his heart softened to “ mother.” 

‘ ‘ I reckon I was too set, ’ ’ he reflected. ‘ ‘ There 
ain’t many women as good an’ faithful as mother. 
I don’t see what got it into her head to go to see 
that Mis’ Nesley — an’ to talk up so to me. She 
never done that afore.” 

The door was locked. In surprise he fumbled 
about in the dark for the seventh flower-pot in 
the third row, where mother always hid the key. 
Yes, it was there. But his knees shook a little 
as he entered the house. He could not remember 
that he had ever found her absent at supper time 
since the children were married. Some of the 
neighbors must be sick. In that case she would 
have left a note ; and he lighted the kitchen can- 
dle, and searched for it. It was pinned to a cush- 
ion on the bureau in the bedroom. The house 
was cold, but he did not wait to kindle a fire. 


73 


THE MANEUVERING OF MRS. SYBERT 


He sat down by the bureau, and with fingers 
somewhat clumsier than usual, adjusted his spec- 
tacles over his high, thin nose. Then, leaning 
close to the candle, he read the letter, the com- 
position of which must have given “mother” 
some anxious hours. It was written with pain- 
ful precision. 

“ Dear Father : You will find the coaid meat in 
the safe out on the back porch in the stun crock covered 
up with a pie pan. The apple butter is in the big peory 
jar down in the seller with a plate and napkeen tied over 
it. Put them back on when you get some out so the ants 
wont get into. There’s a punkin pie on the bottom shelf 
of the pantree to the right side of the door as you go in, 
and some coffy in the mill all ground. I’m oflful sorry I 
hadent time to fix supper. I hev gone to Johns and Ma- 
rias to stay tell you come after me and I don’t want that 
you shud come tell you change your mind bout Mis Nes- 
ley, if it takes till dumesday to change it. I aint never 
gone against you in anythin before, but I haf to this time. 
Im goin to stay at Johns and Marias tell you come of 
yourself and get me. You dont haf to say nothin before 
John and Maria except just well mother Ive come after 
you. Then I’ll know you meen I can go and see Mis 
Nesley. 

Well father I reckon youll be surprised but Ive been 
thinkin bout that poor woman and us not givin her a 
chanse after what Christ said bout castin the first stun. 
He didnt make no difrence between mens and womens 
sins and I dont perpose to. There aint a woman alive 
thats worse than haff the men are when they conclud to 
settle down and live right and if you give men a chanse 
youve got to give women a chanse too. They both got 

74 


THE MANEUVERING OF MRS. SYBERT 


soles an I reckon thats what Gods thinkin bout. I mar- 
ried you and give you a chanse and I reckon youd best 
do as much fer Mis Nesley. 

If you dont come fer me 111 live at Johns and Marias 
and I want that you shud keep all the things but the hit 
and miss rag carpet. I dont think I cud get along with- 
out that. Marias are all wove in stripes and look so 
comon. And my cloze and one fether bed and pillow. 
Well thats all. Mother.” 

“ I laid out your clean undercloze on the foot of the 
bed and your sox with them.” 

One fine afternoon the following week Mrs. 
Sybert, looking through the geraniums in Maria’s 
kitchen window, saw her husband drive up to the 
gate. She did not look surprised. 

“Here’s father come to get me, Maria,” she 
said, lifting her voice. 

Maria came out of the pantry with flour on her 
hands and arms and stood waiting. Mr. Sybert 
came in, stamping, and holding his head high and 
stiffly. He had a lofty and condescending air. 

“Well, mother,” he said, “I’ve come after 
you.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Sybert, “set down till I 
get on my things. I’ve had a right nice vis’t, 
but I’m glad to get home. Did you find the apple 
butter?” 

On the road home Mrs. Sybert talked cheerfully 
about John and Maria and their domestic affairs. 
Mr. Sybert listened silently. He held his body 

75 


THE MANEUVERING OE MRS. SYBERT 


erect, looking neither to the right nor to the left. 
He did not speak until they approached Mr. Nes- 
ley’s gate. Then he said, with firmness and dig« 
nity : 

“ Mother, I’ve b’en thinkin’ that you’d best go 
an’ see Mis’ Nesley, after all. I changed my mind 
down at the postofi&ce groc’ry store that same 
afternoon an’ went home, meanin’ to tell you I 
wanted you sh’u’d go an’ see ’er — but you was 
gone to John’s an’ Maria’s. I reckon you’d best 
stop right now an’ have it over.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Sybert. 

She descended meekly over the front wheel. 
There was not the slightest air of triumph about 
her until she got inside the gate. Then a smile 
went slowly across her face. But her husband 
did not see it. He was looking out of the corners 
of his eyes at the house across the road. Mrs. 
Deacon, the druggist’s wife, and all her children 
had their faces flattened against the window. 

Mr. Sybert’s determination kept his head high, 
but not his spirit. 

” God A’mighty !” he groaned. “The whole 
town ’ll know it to-morrow. I’d rather die than 
face that groc’ry store — after the way I’ve went 
on about people upholdin’ of her I’ ’ 


76 


A POINT OF KNUCKTING-DOWN 



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A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


IN THREE PARTS 
PART I 

Kmarine went along the narrow hall and passed 
through the open door. There was something 
in her carriage that suggested stubbornness. Her 
small body had a natural backward sway, and 
the decision with which she set her heels upon 
the floor had long ago caused the readers of 
character in the village to aver that ‘ ‘ Kmarine 
Kndey was contrairier than any mule.” 

She wore a brown dress, a gray shawl folded 
primly around her shoulders, and a hat that tried 
in vain to make her small face plain. There 
was a frill of white, cheap lace at her slender 
throat, fastened in front with a cherry ribbon. 
Heavy gold earrings with long, shining pendants 
reached almost to her shoulders. They quivered 
and glittered with every movement. 

Kmarine was pretty, in spite of many freckles 
and the tightness with which she brushed her 
hair from her face and coiled it in a sleek knot at 
the back of her head. ” Now, be sure you get it 
just so slick, Kmarine,” her mother would say, 
79 


A POINT OF KNUCKUNG-DOWN 


watching her steadily while she combed and 
brushed and twisted her long tresses. 

As Emarine reached the door her mother fol- 
lowed her down the hall from the kitchen. The 
house was old, and two or three loose pieces in 
the flooring creaked as she stepped heavily upon 
them. 

“Oh, say, Emarine !” 

“Well ?“ 

“You get an’ bring home a dollar’s worth o* 
granylated sugar, will you?” 

“Well.” 

“An’ a box o’ ball bluin’. Mercy, child! 
Your dress-skirt sags awful in the back. Why 
don’t you run a tuck in it ?” 

Emarine turned her head over her shoulder 
with a birdlike movement, and bent backward, 
trying to see the offensive sag. 

“ Can’t you pin it up, maw?” 

“Yes, I guess. Have you got a pin? Why, 
Emarine Endey I If ever I see in all my born 
days I What are you a-doin’ with a red ribbon 
on you — an’ your Uncle Herndon not cold in his 
grave yet! A flne spectickle you’d make o’ 
yourself, a-goin’ the length an’ the breadth o’ the 
town with that thing a-flarin’ on you. You’ll 
disgrace this whole fambly yet ! I have to keep 
watch o’ you like a two-year-old baby. Now, 
you get an’ take it right off o’ you ; an’ don’t 
8o 


A POINT OP KNUCKLING-DOWN 


you let me ketch you a-puttin’ it on again till a 
respectful time after he’s be’n dead. I never 
hear tell o’ such a thing.” 

“I don’t see what a red ribbon’s got to do 
with Uncle Herndon’s bein’ dead,” said Emarine, 

“Oh, you don’t, aigh ? Well, / see. You 
act as if you didn’t have no feelin’.” 

“ Well, goin’ without a red ribbon won’t make 
me feel any worse, will it, maw?” 

“No, it won’t. Emarine, what does get into 
you to act so tantalizin’ ? I guess it ’ll look a 
little better. I guess the neighbors w^on’t talk 
quite so much. You can see fer yourself how 
they talk about Mis’ Henspeter because she wore 
a rose to church before her husband had be’n 
dead a year. All she had to say fer herself was 
that she liked flowers, an’ didn’t sense it ’u’d be 
any disrespect to her husband to wear it — seein’s 
he’d always liked ’em, too. They all showed 
her ’n a hurry what they thought about it. She’s 
got narrow borders on all her han’kachers, too, 
a’ ready.” 

“ Why don’t you stay away from such people ?” 
said Emarine. “Old gossips! You know I 
don’t care what the neighbors say — or think, 
either.” 

“Well, / do. The land knows they talk a 
plenty even without givin’ ’em anything to talk 
about. You get an’ take that red ribbon off o’ 
you.” 8i 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


“Oh, I’ll take it off if you want I sh’u’d.” 
She unfastened it deliberately and laid it on a 
little table. She had an exasperating air of be- 
ing unconvinced and of complying merely for the 
sake of peace. 

She gathered her shawl about her shoulders 
and crossed the porch. 

“ Emarine !’’ 

“Well ?’’ 

“Who’s that a-comin’ over the hill path? I 
can’t make out the dress. It looks some like 
Mis’ Grandy, don’t it?” 

Emarine turned her head. Her eyelids quiv- 
ered closer together in an effort to concentrate 
her vision on the approaching guest. 

“Well, I never !” exclaimed her mother, in 
a subdued but irascible tone. ‘ ‘ There you go — 
a-lookin’ right square at her, w^hen I didn’t want 
that she sh’u’d know we saw her ! It does seem 
to me sometimes, Emarine, that you ain’t got 
good sense.” 

“I’d just as soon she knew we saw her,” said 
Emarine, unmoved. “It’s Miss Presly, maw.” 

“ Oh, land o’ goodness ! That old sticktight? 
She’ll stay all day if she stays a minute. Set 
an’ set ! An’ there I’ve just got the washin’ all 
out on the line, an’ she’ll tell the whole town we 
wear underdo’ s made out o’ unbleached muslin ! 


82 


A POINT OP KNTJCKLING-DOWN 


Are you sure it’s her? It don’t look overly like 
her shawl.” 

“Yes, it’s her.” 

‘‘Well, go on an’ stop an’ talk to her, so ’s to 
give me a chance to red up some. Don’t ferget 
the ball bluin’, Emarine.” 

Emarine went down the path and met the 
visitor just between the two tall lilac trees, whose 
buds were beginning to swell. 

‘‘ Good mornin’, Miss Presly.” 

‘‘Why, good mornin’, Emarine. Z’ your 
maw to home?” 

‘‘Yes ’m.” 

‘‘I thought I’d run down an’ set a spell with 
her, an’ pass the news.” 

Emarine smiled faintly and was silent. 

‘‘Ain’t you goin’ up town pretty early fer 
wash-day?” 

‘‘Yes ’m.” 

‘ ‘ I see you hed a beau home from church las’ 
night.” 

Emarine’s face flushed ; even her ears grew 
rosy. 

‘‘Well, I guess he’s a reel nice young man, 
anyways, Emarine. You needn’t to blush so. 
Mis’ Grandy was a-sayin’ she thought you’d done 
oflful well to git him. He owns the house an’ lot 
they live in, an’ he’s got five hunderd dollars in 
the bank. I reckon he’ll have to live with the 


83 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


ol’ lady, though, when he gits married. They 
do say she’s turrable hard to suit.” 

Emarine lifted her chin. The gold pendants 
glittered like diamonds. 

“ It don’t make any difference to me whuther 
she’s hard to suit or easy,” she said. “I’ll have 
to be goin’ on now. Just knock at the front door. 
Miss Presly.” 

“ Oh, I can go right around to the back, just 
as well, an’ save your maw the trouble o’ cornin’ 
to the door. If she’s got her washin’ out, I 
can stoop right under the clo’s line.” 

“Well, we like to have our comp’ny come to 
the front door, ’ ’ said Emarine, dryly. 

It was a beautiful morning in early spring. 
The alders and the maples along the hill were 
wrapped in reddish mist. The saps were mount- 
ing through delicate veins. Presently the mist 
would quicken to a pale green as the young 
leaves unfolded, but as yet everything seemed to 
be waiting. The brown earth had a fresh, woody 
smell that caused the heart to thrill with a vague 
sense of ecstasy — of some delight deep hidden 
and inexplicable. Pale lavender ‘ ‘ spring beau- 
ties ” stood shyly in groups or alone, in sheltered 
places along the path. There was even, here and 
there, a trillium — or white lily, as the children 
called it — shivering on its slender stem. There 
were old stumps, too, hollowed out by long-spent 
84 


A POINT OF KNUCKIvING-DOWN 


flames into rustic urns, now heaped to their rag* 
ged rims with velvet moss. On a fence near a 
meadow-lark was pouring out its few, but full and 
beautiful, notes of passion and desire. Emarine 
paused to listen. Her heart vibrated with ex- 
quisite pain to the ravishment of regret in those 
liquid tones. 

“Sounds as if he was sayin ’ — ^ Sweet — oh — 
Sweet — my heart is breaking T ” she said; and then 
with a kind of shame of the sentiment in such a 
fancy, she went on briskly over the hill. Her 
heels clicked sharply on the hard road. 

Before she reached the long wooden stairs which 
led from the high plateau down to the one street 
of Oregon City, Emarine passed through a beauti- 
ful grove of firs and cedars. Already the firs were 
taking on their little plushy tufts of pale green, 
and exuding a spicy fragrance. Occasionally a 
last year’s cone drew itself loose and sunk noise- 
lessly into a bed of its own brown needles. A 
little way from the path a woodpecker clung to a 
tree, hammering into the tough bark with its long 
beak. As Emarine approached, it flew heavily 
away, the undersides of its wings flashing a scar- 
let streak along the air. 

As her eyes ceased following its flight, she be- 
came aware that some one was standing in the 
path, waiting. A deep, self-conscious blush swept 
over her face and throat. ‘ ‘ Emarine never does 

85 


A POINT OF KNUCKIvING-DOWN 


anything up by halves,” her mother was wont to 
declare. ” When she blushes, she blushes !" 

She stepped slowly toward him with a sudden 
stiff awkwardness. 

“Oh — you, is it, Mr. Parmer?” she said, with 
an admirable attempt — but an attempt only — at 
indifference. 

“Yes, it’s me,” said the young fellow, with an 
embarrassed laugh. With a clumsy shuffle he 
took step with her. Both faces were flaming. 
Emarine could not lift her eyes from their con- 
templation of the dead leaves in her path — yet 
she passed a whole company of ‘ ‘ spring beauties’ ’ 
playing hide-and-seek around a stump, without 
seeing them. Her pulses seemed full of little 
hammers, beating away mercilessly. Her fingers 
fumbled nervously with the fringes on her shawl. 

“ Don’t choo want I sh’u’d pack your umberell 
fer yuh?” asked the young man, solemnly. 

“Why — yes, if you want.” 

It was a faded thing she held toward him, done 
up rather baggily, too ; but he received it as rev- 
erently as if it had been a twenty-dollar silk one 
with a gold handle. 

“ Does your mother know I kep* yuh comp’ny 
home from church last night ?’ ’ 

“Unh-hunh.” 

“What ’id she say?” 

“She didn’t say much.’* 

86 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


“Well, what?” 

“Oh, not much. ’ ’ Emarine was rapidly recov- 
ering her self-possession. ‘ ‘ I went right in an’ 
up an’ told her.” 

“ Well, why can’t choo tell me what she said? 
Emarine, yuh can be the contrairiest girl when 
yuh want.” 

“ Can I ?” She flashed a coquettish glance at 
him. She was quite at her ease by this time, al- 
though the color was still burning deep in her 
cheeks. “ I sh’u’dn’t think you’d waste so much 
time on contrairy people, Mr. Parmer.” 

“ Oh, Emarine, go on an’ tell me !” 

“ Well ” — Emarine laughed mirthfully — “she 
put the backs of her hands on her hips — this way ! ’ ’ 
She faced him suddenly, setting her arms akimbo, 
the shawl’s fringes quivering over her elbows ; 
her eyes fairly danced into his. ‘ ‘ An’ she looked 
at me a long time ; then she says — ‘ Hunh ! You 
— leetle — heifer ! You think you’ re some pun’ kins, 
don’t you ? A-havin’ a beau home from meetin’ . ’ ’ 

Both laughed hilariously. 

“Well, what else ’id she say?” 

“ I don’t believe you want to know. Do you 
— sure?” 

“ I cross my heart.” 

“Well — she said it c’u’dn’t happen more’n 
ev’ry once ’n so often.” 

“Pshaw 1” 


87 


A POINT OF KNUCKTING-DOWN 


“She did.” 

The young man paused abruptly. A narrow, 
unfrequented path led through deeper woods to 
the right. 

“Bmarine, let’s take this catecornered cut 
through here.” 

“ Oh, I’m afraid it’s longer — an’ it’s washday, 
you know,” said Bmarine, with feeble resistance. 

“We’ll walk right fast. Come on. George ! 
But it’s nice and sweet in here, though !” 

They entered the path. It was narrow and the 
great trees bent over and touched above them. 

There was a kind of soft lavender twilight fall- 
ing upon them. It was very still, save for the 
fluttering of invisible wings and the occasional 
shrill scream of a blue-jay. 

‘ ‘ It is sweet in here, ’ ’ said Bmarine. 

The young man turned quickly, and with a 
deep, asking look into her lifted eyes, put his 
arms about her and drew her to him. “Bma- 
rine, ’ ’ he said, with passionate tenderness. And 
then he was silent, and just stood holding her 
crushed against him, and looking down on her 
with his very soul in his eyes. Oh, but a man 
who refrains from much speech in such an hour 
has wisdom straight from the gods themselves ! 

After a long silence Bmarine lifted her head and 
smiled trustfully into his eyes. “It’s washday, ’ ’ 
she said, with a flash of humor. 

88 


A POINT OP KNUCKWNG-DOWN 


“So it is,” he answered her, heartily. “An’ 
I promised yuh we’d hurry up — an’ I alwus keep 
my promises. But first — Kmarine — ” 

“Well ?” 

“Yuh must say somethin’ first.” 

“Say what, Mr. Parmer?” 

''"Mr. Parmer!"' His tone and his look 
were reproachful. “ Can’t choo say Orville?” 

“Oh, I can — if you want I sh’u’d.” 

“Well, I do want choo sh’u’d, Kmarine. 
Now, yuh know what else it is I want choo 
sh’u’d say before we go on.” 

“Why, no, I don’t — hunh-unh.” She shook 
her head, coquettishly. 

“Kmarine” — the young fellow’s face took on 
a sudden seriousness — “ I want choo to say yuh ’ll 
marry me.” 

“Oh, my, no!” cried Kmarine. She turned 
her head on one side, like a bird, and looked at 
him with .lifted brows and surprised eyes. One 
would have imagined that such a thought had 
never entered that pretty head before. 

“What, Kmarine I Yuh won’t?” There was 
consternation in his voice. 

“Oh, my, no I” Both glance and movement 
were full of coquettishness. The very fringes of 
the demure gray shawl seemed to have taken on 
new life and vivacity. 

Orville Palmer’s face turned pale and stem. 

89 


A POINT OP ZNUCKUNG-DOWN 


He drew a long breath silently, not once remov- 
ing that searching look from her face. 

“Well, then,” he said, calmly, ‘‘I want to 
know what choo mean by up an’ lettin’ me kiss 
yuh — if yuh don’t mean to marry me.” 

This was an instant quietus to the girl’s co- 
quetry. She gave him a startled glance. A 
splash of scarlet came into each cheek. For a 
moment there was utter silence. Then she made 
a soft feint of withdrawing from his arms. To 
her evident amazement, he made no attempt to 
detain her. This placed her in an awkward di- 
lemma, and she stood irresolutely, with her eyes 
cast down. 

Young Palmer’s arms fell at his sides with a 
movement of despair. Sometimes they were 
ungainly arms, but now absence of self-con- 
sciousness lent them a manly grace. 

“Well, Emarine,” he said, kindly, “I’ll go 
back the way I come. Goodby.” 

With a quick, spontaneous burst of passion — 
against which she had been struggling, and 
which was girlish and innocent enough to carry 
a man’s soul with it into heaven — Emarine cast 
herself upon his breast and flung her shawl-en- 
tangled arms about his shoulders. Her eyes 
were earnest and pleading, and there were tears 
of repentance in them. With a modesty that 


90 


A POINT OF KNUCZPrlNG-DOWN 


was enchanting she set her warm, sweet lips 
tremblingly to his, of her own free will. 

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered. ‘‘I was 
only a — a-foolin’.” 


The year was older by a month when one 
morning Mrs. Endey went to the front door and 
stood with her body swaying backward, and one 
rough hand roofing the rich light from her eyes. 

“ Emarine ’ad ought to ’a’ got to the hill path 
by this time,” she said, in a grumbling tone. 
‘‘It beats me what keeps her so ! I reckon she’s 
a-standin’ like a bump on a lawg, watchin’ a red 
ant or a tumble-bug, or some fool thing ! She’d 
leave her dish-washin’ any time an’ stand at the 
door a-ketchin’ cold in her bare arms, with the 
suds a-drippin’ all over her apron an’ the floor — 
a-listenin’ to one o’ them silly meadow-larks 
hollerin’ the same noise over ’n over. Her paw’s 
women-folks are all just such fools.” 

She started guiltily and lowered her eyes to 
the gate which had clicked sharply. 

“Oh!” she said. ‘‘That you, Emarine?” 
She laughed rather foolishly. ‘ ‘ I was lookin’ 
right over you — lookin’ fer you, too. Miss 
Presly’s be’n here, an’ of all the strings she had 
to tell ! Why, fer pity’s sake I Is that a dollar’s 
worth o’ coffee?” 


OT 


A POINT OP KNUCKPING-DOWN 


“Yes, it is ; an’ I guess it’s full weight, too, 
from the way my arm feels ! It’s just about 
broke.’’ 

“Well, give it to me, an’ come on out in the 
hitching. I’ve got somethin’ to tell you.’’ 

Emarine followed slowly, pinning a spray of 
lilac bloom in her bosom as she went. 

“Emarine, where’s that spring balance at? 
I’m goin’ to weigh this coffee. If it’s one grain 
short. I’ll send it back a-flyin’. I’ll show ’em 
they can’t cheat this old hen !’’ 

She slipped the hook under the string and 
lifted the coffee cautiously until the balance was 
level with her eyes. Then standing well back 
on her’^heels and drawing funny little wrinkles 
up around her mouth and eyes, she studied the 
figures earnestly, counting the pounds and the 
half-pounds down from the top. Finally she 
lowered it with a disappointed air. “Well,’’ she 
said, reluctantly, “ it’s just it — just to a ‘ t.’ 
They’d ought to make it a leetle over, though, to 
allow fer the paper bag. Get the coffee-canister, 
Emarine.’’ 

When the coffee had all been jiggled through 
a tin funnel into the canister, Mrs. Endey sat 
down stiffly and began polishing the funnel with 
a cloth. From time to time she glanced at Em- 
arine with a kind of deprecatory mystery. At 


92 


A POIN'T OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


last she said — “ Miss Presly spent the day down’t 
Mis’ Parmer’s yesterday.” 

“Did she?” said Emarine, coldly; but the 
color came into her cheeks. “Shall I go on with 
the puddin’ ?’ ’ 

“Why, you can if you want. She told me 
some things I don’t like.” 

Emarine shattered an egg-shell on the side of a 
bowl and released the gold heart within. 

‘ ‘ Miss Presly says once Mis’ Parmer had to go 
out an’ gether the eggs an’ shet up the chickens, 
so Miss Presly didn’t think there’ d be any harm 
in just lookin’ into the drawers an’ things to see 
what she had. She says she’s awful short on 
table cloths — only got three to her name ! An’ 
only six napkeens, an’ them coarse ’s anything ! 
When Mis’ Parmer come back in. Miss Presly 
talked around a little, then she says — ‘ I s’ pose 
you’re one o’ them spic an’ span kind, Mis’ Par- 
mer, that alwus has a lot o’ extry table cloths put 
away in lavender.’ ” 

Emarine set the egg-beater into the bowl and 
began turning it slowly. 

‘ ‘ Mis’ Parmer got mighty red all of a sudden ; 
but she says right out — ‘ No, I’m a-gettin’ 

reel short on table cloths an’ things. Miss Presly, 
but I ain’t goin’ to replenish. Orville ’s thinkin’ 
o’ gettin’ married this year, an’ I guess Emarine 
’ll have a lot o’ extry things.’ An’ then she ups 


93 


A POINT OP KNUCK1.ING-DOWN 


an’ laughs an’ says — ‘I’ll let her stock up the 
house, seein’s she’s so anxious to get into it.’ ” 

Emarine had turned pale. The egg-beater fairly 
flew round and round. A little of the golden 
foam slipped over the edge of the bowl and slid 
down to the white table. 

“ Miss Presly thinks a good deal o’ you, Ema- 
rine, so that got her spunk up ; an’ she just told 
Mis’ Parmer she didn’t believe you was dyin’ to 
go there an’ stock up her drawers fer her. Says 
she — ‘ I don’t think young people ’ad ought to 
live with mother-in-laws, any way.’ Said she 
thought she’d let Mis’ Parmer put that in her 
pipe an’ smoke it when she got time.” 

There was a pulse in each side of Emarine’s 
throat beating hard and full. Tittle blue, throb- 
bing cords stood out in her temples. She went 
on mixing the pudding mechanically. 

“Then Mis’ Parmer just up an’ said with a 
tantalizin’ laugh that if you didn’t like the 
a-commodations at her house, you needn’t to come 
there. Said she never did like you, anyways, ner 
anybody else that set their heels down the way 
you set your’n. Said she’d had it all out with 
Orville, an’ he’d promised her faithful that if there 
was any knucklin’ -down to be done, you’d be the 
one to do it, an’ not her !” 

Emarine turned and looked at her mother. Her 
face was white with controlled passion. Her eyes 

94 


A POINT' OP KNUCKLING-DOWN 


burned. But her voice was quiet when she spoke. 

‘ ‘ I guess you’d best move your chair, ’ ’ she said, 
“ so ’s I can get to the oven. This puddin’ ’s all 
ready to go in.” 

When she had put the pudding in the oven she 
moved about briskly, clearing the things off the 
table and washing them. She held her chin high. 
There was no doubt now about the click of her 
heels; it was ominous. 

“ I won’t marry him !” she cried at last, fling- 
ing the words out. “ He can have his mother an’ 
his wore-out table cloths!” Her voice shook. 
The muscles around her mouth were twitching. 

“My mercy I” cried her mother. She had a 
frightened look. “Who cares what his mother 
says ? I w’u’dn’t go to bitin’ off my nose to spite 
my face, if I was you I” 

“Well, I care what he says. I’ll see myself 
knucklin’ -down to a mother-in-law 1” 

“Well, now, don’t go an’ let loose of your 
temper, or you ’ll be sorry fer it. You’re alwus 
mighty ready a-tellin’ me not to mind what folks 
say, an’ to keep away from the old gossips.” 

“Well, you told me yourself, didn’t you? I 
can’t keep away from my own mother very well, 
can I?” 

“Well, now, don’t flare up so I You’re worse 
’n karosene with a match set to it.” 


95 


A POINT' OP KNUCKLING-DOWN 


“ What ’id you tell me for, if you didn’t want 
I sh’u’d flare up?” 

” Why, I thought it ’u’d just put you on your 
mettle an’ show her she c’u’dn’t come it over 
you.” Then she added, diplomatically chang- 
ing her tone as well as the subject — ” Oh, say, 
Kmarine, I wish you’d go up in the antic an’ 
bring down a bunch o’ pennyrile. I’ll watch the 
puddin’.” 

She laughed with dry humor when the girl was 
gone. ” I got into a pickle that time. Who ever 
’d ’a’ thought she’d get stirred up so ? I’ll have 
to manage to get her cooled down before Orville 
comes to-night. They ain’t many matches like 
him, if his mother zs such an old scarecrow. He 
ain’t so well OS', but he’ll humor Kmarine up. 
He ’d lay down an’ let her walk on him, I guess. 
There’s Mis’ Grisley b’en a-tryin’ fer months to 
get him to go with her Kily — L-Hy, with a com- 
plexion like sole-leather ! — an’ a-askin’ him up 
there all the time to dinner, an’ a-flatterin’ him 
up to the skies. I’d like to know what they al- 
ways name dark-complected babies Lily fer ! Oh, 
did you get the pennyrile, Kmarine? I was 
laughin’ to myself, a-wond’rin’ what Mis’ Gris- 
ley’s Lily ’ll say when she hears you’re goin’ to 
marry Orville.” 

Kmarine hung a spotless dish-cloth on two 
nails behind the stove, but did not speak. 

96 


A POINT OP KNUCKI.ING-DOWN 


Mrs. Endey turned her back to the girl and 
smiled humorously. 

“ That didn’t work,” she thought. “I’ll have 
to try somethin’ else.” 

” I’ve made up my mind to get you a second- 
day dress, too, Emarine. You can have it any 
color you want — dove-color ’d be awful nice. 
There’s a hat down at Mis’ Norton’s milliner’ 
store that ’u’d go beautiful with dove-color.” 

Emarine took some flat-irons off the stove, wiped 
them carefully with a soft cloth and set them 
evenly on a shelf. Still she did not speak. Mrs. 
Endey ’s face took on an anxious look. 

“There’s some beautiful artaficial orange flow- 
ers at Mis’ Norton’s, Emarine. You can be mar- 
ried in ’em, if you want. They’re so reel they 
almost smell sweet.” 

She waited a moment, but receiving no reply, 
she added with a kind of desperation — ‘ ‘ An’ a 
veil, Emarine — a long, white one a-flowin’ down 
all over you to your feet — one that ’u’d just 
make Mis’ Grisley’s Lily’s mouth water. What 
do you say to that ? You can have that, too, if 
you want.” 

“ Well, I don’t want !” said Emarine, fiercely. 
“ Didn’t I say I wa’n’t goin’ to marry him ? I’ll 
give him his walking-chalk when he comes to- 
night. I don’t need any help about it, either.” 

She went out, closing the door as an exclama- 
tion point. 


97 


A POINT OP KNUCKLING-DOWN 


Oregon City kept early hours. The curfew 
ringing at nine o’clock on summer evenings gath- 
ered the tender-aged of both sexes off the street. 

It was barely seven o’clock when Orville Pal- 
mer came to take Emarine out for a drive. He 
had a high top-buggy, rather the worse for wear, 
and drove a sad-eyed, sorrel horse. 

She was usually ready to come tripping down 
the path, to save his tying the horse. To-night 
she did not come. He waited a while. Then he 
whistled and called — “ Oh, Emarine !” 

He pushed his hat back and leaned one elbow 
on his knee, flicking his whip up and down, and 
looking steadily at the open door. But she did 
not come. Finally he got out and, tying his horse, 
went up the path slowly. Through the door he 
could see Emarine sitting quietly sewing. He 
observed at once that she was pale. 

“Sick, Emarine?” he said, going in. 

“ No,” she answered, “ I ain’t sick.” 

“Then why under the sun didn’t choo come 
when I hollowed ?’ ’ 

“ I didn’t want to.” Her tone was icy. 

He stared at her a full minute. Then he burst 
out laughing. “Oh, say, Emarine, yuh can be 
the contrariest girl I ever see ! Yuh do love to 
tease a fellow so. Yuh ’ll have to kiss me fer 
that.” 

He went toward her. She pushed her chair 
98 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


back and gave him a look that made him pause. 

“ How’s your mother?” she asked. 

“My mother?” A cold chill went up and 
down his spine. “Why — oh, she ’s all right. 
Why?” 

She took a small gold ring set with a circle of 
garnets from her finger and held it toward him 
with a steady hand. 

“ You can take an’ show her this ring, an’ tell 
her I ain’t so awful anxious to stock her up on 
table cloths an’ napkeens as she thinks I am. 
Tell her yuh ’ll get some other girl to do her 
knucklin’ -down fer her. I ain’t that kind.” 

The young man’s face grew scarlet and then 
paled off rapidly. He looked like a man accused 
of a crime. “Why, Emarine,” he said, feebly. 

He did not receive the ring, and she threw it on 
the floor at his feet. A whole month she had 
slept with that ring against her lips — the bond 
of her love and his ! Now, it was only the em- 
blem of her “ knuckling-down ” to another woman. 

“You needn’t to stand there a-pretendin’ you 
don’t know what I mean.” 

“Well, I don’t, Emarine.” 

“Yes, you do, too. Didn’t you promise your 
mother that if there was any knucklin’-down to 
be did, I’d be the one to do it, an’ not her?” 

‘ ‘ Why — er — Emarine — ’ ’ 

She laughed scornfully. 


99 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


“ Don’t go to tryin’ to get out of it. You know 
you did. Well, you can take your ring, an’ your 
mother, an’ all her old duds. I don’t want any 
o’ you.” 

‘ ‘ Emarine, ” said the young man, looking guilty 
and honest at the same time, ‘ ‘ the talk I had 
with my mother didn’t amount to a pinch o’ snuff. 
It wa’n’t anything to make yuh act this way. 
She don’t like yuh just because I’m goin’ to marry 
yuh ” — 

“Oh, but you ain’t,” interrupted Emarine, with 
an aggravating laugh. 

“ Yes, I am, too. She kep’ naggin’ at me day 
an’ night fer fear yuh’d be sassy to her an’ she’d 
have to take a back seat. ’ ’ 

“I’ll tell you what’s the matter with her !” in- 
terrupted Emarine. “She’s got the big-head. 
She thinks ev’ry body wants to rush into her old 
house, an’ marry her son, an’ use her old things ! 
She wants to make ev’rybody toe her mark.” 

“ Emarine ! She’s my mother.” 

“ I don’t care if she is. I w’u’dn’t tech her 
with a ten-foot pole.” 

“She ’ll be all right after we’re married, Em- 
arine, an’ she finds out how — how nice yuh are.” 

His own words appealed to his sense of the 
ridiculous. He smiled. Emarine divined the 
cause of his reluctant amusement and was in- 


lOO 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


stantly furious. Her face turned very white. 
Her eyes burned out of it like two fires. 

“ You think I ain’t actin’ very nice now, don’t 
you? I don’t care what you think, Orville Par- 
mer, good or bad.” 

The young man stood thinking seriously. 

‘ ‘ Emarine, ’ ’ he said, at last, very quietly, ‘ ‘ I 
love yuh an’ yuh know it. An’ yuh love me. 
I’ll alwus be good to yuh an’ see that choo ain’t 
emposed upon, Emarine. An’ I think the world 
an’ all of yuh. That’s all I got to say. I can’t 

see what ails yuh, Emarine When 

I think o’ that day when I asked yuh to marry 

me An’ that night I give yuh the 

ring” — the girl’s eyelids quivered suddenly and 
fell. ‘‘An’ that moonlight walk we took along 

by the falls Why, it seems as if 

this can’t be the same girl.” 

There was such a long silence that Mrs. 
Endey, cramping her back with one ear pressed 
to the keyhole of the door, decided that he had 
won and smiled dryly. 

At last Emarine lifted her head. She looked 
at him steadily. ‘‘ Did you, or didn’t you, tell 
your mother I’d have to do the knucklin’ -down ?” 

He shuffled his feet about a little. 

“Well, I guess I did, Emarine, but I didn’t 
mean anything. I just did it to get a little 
peace.” 


loi 


A POINT OF KNUCKTING-DOWN 


The poor fellow had floundered upon an un- 
fortunate excuse. 

“Oh!” said the girl, contemptuously. Her 
lip curled. “An’ so you come an’ tell me the 
same thing for the same reason — just to get a 
little peace 1 A pretty time you’d have a-gettin’ 
any peace at all, between the two of us 1 You’re 
chickenish — an’ I hate chickenish people.” 

“ Emarine I” ' 

“ Oh, I wish you’d go.” There was an almost 
desperate weariness in her voice. 

He picked up the ring with its shining garnet 
stars, and went. 

Mrs. Endey tiptoed into the kitchen. 

“My back’s about broke.” She laughed 
noiselessly. “I swan I’m proud o’ that girl. 
She’s got more o’ me in her ’n I give her credit 
fer. The idee o’ her a-callin’ him chickenish 
right out to his face I That done me good. 
Well, I don’t care such an awful lot if she don’t 
marry him. A girl with that much spunk de- 
serves 2 i gov' nor! An’ that mother o’ his’n ’s 
a case. I guess her an’ me ’d ’a’ fit like cats an’ 
dogs, anyhow.” Her lips unclosed with reluc- 
tant mirth. 

The next morning Emarine arose and went 
about her work as usual. She had not slept. 
But there were no signs of relenting, or of regret, 


102 


A POINT OF KNUCKUNG-DOWN 


in her face. After the first surreptitious look at 
her, Mrs. Endey concluded that it was all settled 
unchangeably. Her aspiring mind climbed from 
a governor to a United States senator. There 
was nothing impossible to a girl who could break 
her own heart at night and go about the next 
morning setting her heels down the way Emarine 
was setting hers. 

Mrs. Endey ’s heart swelled with triumph. 

Emarine washed the dishes and swept the 
kitchen. Then she went out to sweep the porch. 
Suddenly she paused. A storm of lyric passion 
had burst upon her ear ; and running through it 
she heard the words — Sweet — oh — Sweet — 
my heart is breaking ! ’ ’ 

The girl trembled. Something stung her eyes 
sharply. 

Then she pulled herself together stubbornly. 
Her face hardened. She went on Sweeping with 
more determined care than usual. 

“Well, I reckon,” she said, with a kind of 
fierce philosophy, “it ’u’d ’a’ been breaking a 
good sight worse if Td ’a’ married him an’ that 
mother o’ his’n. That’s some comfort.” 

But when she went in she closed the door care- 
fully, shutting out that impassioned voice. 


A POINl OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


PART II 

It was eight o’clock of a June morning. It 
had rained during the night. Now the air was 
sweet with the sunshine on the wet leaves and 
flowers. 

Mrs. Endey was ironing. The table stood 
across the open window, up which a wild honey- 
suckle climbed, flinging out slender, green shoots, 
each topped with a cluster of scarlet spikes. 
The splendor of the year was at its height. The 
flowers were marching by in pomp and magnifi- 
cence. 

Mrs. Endey spread a checked gingham apron 
on the ironing cloth. It was trimmed at the 
bottom with a ruffle, which she pulled and 
smoothed with careful fingers. 

She selected an iron on the stove, set the 
wooden handle into it with a sharp, little click, 
and polished it on a piece of scorched newspaper. 
Then she moved it evenly across the starched 
apron. A shining path followed it. 

At that moment some one opened the gate. 
Mrs. Endey stooped to peer through the vines. 

“ Well, ’f I ever ’n all my natcherl life !” she 
said, solemnly. She set the iron on its stand 
and lifted her figure erect. She placed one hand 
on her hip, and with the other rubbed her chin 


104 


A POINT OP KNUCKLING-DOWN 


in perplexed thought. “If it ain’t Orville Par- 
mer, you may shoot me ! That beats me ! I 
wonder ’f he thinks Bmarine ’s a-dyin’ o’ love 
fer him !” 

Then a thought came that made her feel faint. 
She fell into a chair, weakly. “ Oh, my land !’’ 
she said. “ I wonder ’f that ain't what’s the 
matter of her ! I never ’d thought o’ that. I’d 
thought o’ ev’ry thing but that. I wonder ! 
There she’s lied flat o’ her back ever sence she 
fell out with him a month ago. Oh, my mercy ! 
I wonder ’f that is it. Here I’ve b’en rackin’ 
my brains to find out what ails ’er.” 

She got up stiffly and went to the door. The 
young man standing there had a pale, anxious 
face. 

“ Good-momin’, Mis’ Bndey,’.’ he said. He 
looked with a kind of entreaty into her grim 
face. “ I come to see Emarine.” 

“Emarine’s sick.” She spoke coldly. 

‘ ‘ I know she is. Mis’ Endey . ’ ’ His voice shook. 
“If it wa’n’t fer her bein’ sick, I w’u’dn’t be 
here. I s’ pose, after the way she sent me off, I 
ain’t got any spunk or I w’u’dn’t ’a’ come any- 
way ; but I heard — ’ ’ 

He hesitated and looked away. 

“ What ’id you hear?” 

“ I heard she wa’n’t a-goin’ to — get well.” 

There was a long silence. 


A POINT OF KNUCKTING-DOWN 


“Is she?” he asked, then. His voice was 
low and broken. 

Mrs. Endey sat down. “I do’ know,” she 
said, after another silence. “I’m oflful worried 
about her, Orville. I can’t make out what ails 
’er. She won’t eat a thing ; even floatin’ island 
turns agi’n ’er — an’ she al’ays loved that.” 

“ Oh, Mis’ Endey, can’t I see ’er ?” 

“ I don’t see ’s it ’u’d be any use. Emarine’s 
turrable set. ‘F you hadn’t went an’ told your 
mother that if there was any knucklin’ -down to 
be did between her an’ Emarine, Emarine ’u’d 
have to do it, you an’ her’d ’a’ b’en married by 
this time. I’d bought most ha’f her weddin’ 
things a’ ready.” 

The young man gave a sigh that was almost a 
groan. He looked like one whose sin has found 
him out. He dropped into a chair, and putting 
his elbows on his knees, sunk his face into his 
brown hands. 

“Good God, Mis’ Endey!” he said, with 
passionate bitterness. “Can’t choo ever stop 
harpin’ on that ? Ain’t I cursed myself day an’ 
night ever sence? Oh, I wish yuh’d help me 1” 
He lifted a wretched face. “ I didn’t mean any- 
thing by tellin’ my mother that ; she’s a-gettin’ 
kind o’ childish, an’ she was afraid Emarine ’u’d 
run over ’er. But if she’ll only take me back, 
she’ll have ev’ry thing her own way.” 

io6 


A POINT OP KNUCKUNG-DOWN 


A little gleam of triumph came into Mrs. 
Endey’s face. Evidently the young man was 
rapidly becoming reduced to a frame of mind de- 
sirable in a son-in-law. 

“WiU you promise that, solemn, Orville Par- 
mer ?’ ’ She looked at him sternly. 

“Yes, Mis’ Endey, I will — solemn.” His 
tone was at once wretched and hopeful. “I’ll, 
promise anything under the sun, ’f she’ll only 
fergive me. I can’t live without ’er — an’ that’s 
all there is about it. Won’t choo ask her to see 
me. Mis’ Endey?” 

“Well, I do’ know,” said Mrs. Endey, doubt- 
fully. She cleared her throat, and sat looking at 
the floor, as if lost in thought. He should never 
have it to say that she had snapped him up too 
readily. “I don’t feel much like meddlin’. I 
must say I side with Emarine. I do think” — 
her tone became regretful — “ a girl o’ her spir’t 
deserves a gov’nor.” 

“I know she does,” said the young man, 
miserably. “I alwus knew / wa’n’t ha’f good 
enough fer ’er. But Mis’ Endey, I know she 
loves me. Won’ t choo — ’ ’ 

“Well !” Mrs. Endey gave a sigh of resigna- 
tion. She got up very slowly, as if still un- 
decided. “ I’ll see what she says to ’t. But I’ll 
tell you right out I sha’n’t advise ’er, Orville.” 

She closed the door behind her with deliberate 


107 


A POINT OT knucktino-down 


care. She laughed dryly as she went up stairs, 
holding her head high. “There’s nothin’ like 
makin’ your own terms,” she said, shrewdly. 

She was gone a long time. When Orville 
heard her coming lumbering back down the 
stairs and along the hall, his heart stopped 
beating. 

Her coming meant — everything to him ; and 
it was so slow and so heavy it seemed ominous. 
For a moment he could not speak, and her face 
told him nothing. Then he faltered out — ‘ ‘ Will 
she? Oh, don’t choo say she won’t !” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Endey, with a sepulchral 
sigh, “she’ll see you, but I don’t know ’s any- 
thing ’ll come of it. Don’t you go to bracin’ up 
on that idee, Orville Parmer. She’s set like a 
strip o’ calico washed in alum water.” 

The gleam of hope that her first words had 
brought to his face was transitory. “You can 
come on,” said Mrs. Endey, lifting her chin 
solemnly. 

Orville followed her in silence. 

The little room in which Emarine lay ill was 
small and white, like a nun’s chamber. The 
ceiling slanted on two sides. There was white 
matting on the floor ; there was an oval blue rug 
of braided rags at the side of the bed, and an- 
other in front of the bureau. There was a small 
cane-seated and cane-backed rocker. By the side 

io8 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


of the bed was a high, stiff wooden chair, painted 
very black and trimmed with very blue roses. 

There were two or three pictures on the walls. 
The long curtains of snowy butter-cloth were 
looped high. 

The narrow white bed had been wheeled 
across the open window, so Kmarine could lie and 
look down over the miles of green valley, with 
the mellifluous Willamette winding through it 
like a broad silver-blue ribbon. By turning her 
head a little she could see the falls ; the great 
bulk of water sliding over the precipice like glass, 
to be crushed into powdered foam and flung high 
into the sunlight, and then to go seething on down 
to the sea. 

At sunrise and at sunset the mist blown up in 
long veils from the falls quickened of a sudden 
to rose and gold and purple, shifting and blend- 
ing into a spectral glow of thrilling beauty. It 
was sweeter than guests to Emarine. 

The robins were company, too, in the large 
cherry tree outside of her window ; and sometimes 
a flight of wild canaries drifted past like a 
yellow, singing cloud. When they sank, swiftly 
and musically, she knew that it was to rest upon 
a spot golden with dandelions. 

Outside the door of this room Mrs. Endey 
paused. “I don’t see ’s it ’u’d be proper to let 
you go in to see ’er alone,” she said, sternly. 

109 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


Orville’s eyes were eloquent with entreaty. 
“ I/)rd knows there w’u’dn’t be any harm in ’t,” 
he said, humbly but fervently. “I feel jest as if 
I was goin’ in to see an angel.” 

Mrs. Endey’s face softened ; but at once a smile 
came upon it — one of those smiles of reluctant, 
uncontrollable humor that take us unawares 
sometimes, even in the most tragic moments. 
“She’s got too much spunk fer an angel,” she 
said. 

“Don’t choo go to runnin’ of her down!” 
breathed Orville, with fierce and reckless defiance. 

“ I wa’n’t a-runnin’ of her down,” retorted 
Mrs. Endey, coldly. “You don’t ketch me 
a-runnin’ of my own kin down, Orville Parmer i” 
She glowered at him under drawn brows. “An’ 
I won’t stand anybody else’s a-runnin’ of ’em 
down or a-walkin’ over ’em, either 1 There ain’t 
no call fer you to tell me not to run ’em down.” 
Her look grew blacker. “I reckon we’d best 
settle all about your mother before we go in there, 
Orville Parmer.” 

“ What about ’er ?” His tone was miserable ; 
his defiance was short-lived. 

“Why, there’s no use ’n your goin’ in there 
unless you’re ready to promise that you’ll give 
Emarine the whip-hand over your mother. You 
best make up your mind. ’ ’ 

“It’s made up,” said the young fellow, desper- 


IIO 


A POINT OF KNUCKUNG-DOWN 


ately. “ I^ord Almighty, Mis’ Kndey, it’s made 
up.” 

“Well.” She turned the door-knob. “I 
know it ain’t the thing, an’ I’d die if Miss Pres- 
ley sh’u’d come an’ find out — the town w’u’dn’t 
hold her, she’d talk so ! Well ! Now, don’t 
stay too long. ’F I see anybody a-comin’ I’ll 
cough at the foot o’ the stairs.” 

She opened the door and when he had passed 
in, closed it with a bitter reluctance. “ It ain’t 
the proper thing,” she repeated; and she stood 
for some moments with her ear bent to the key- 
hole. A sudden vision of Miss Presley coming 
up the stairs to see Emarine sent her down to the 
kitchen with long, cautious strides, to keep guard. 

Emarine was propped up with pillows. Her 
mother had dressed her in a white sacque, con- 
sidering it a degree more proper than a night- 
dress. There was a wide ruffle at the throat, 
trimmed with serpentine edging. Emarine was 
famous for the rapidity with which she crocheted, 
as well as for the number and variety of her pat- 
terns. 

Orville went with clumsy noiselessness to the 
white bed. He was holding his breath. His 
hungry eyes had a look of rising tears that are 
held back. They took in everything — the girl’s 
paleness and her thinness ; the beautiful dark 
hair, loose upon the pillow ; the blue veins in 


III 


A POINT OF KNUCKTING-DOWN 


her temples ; the dark lines under her languid 
eyes. 

He could not speak. He fell upon his knees, 
and threw one arm over her with compelling 
passion, but carefully, too, as one would touch a 
flower, and laid his brow against her hand. His 
shoulders swelled. A great sob struggled from 
his breast. “Oh, Emarine, Emarine !” he 
groaned. Then there was utter silence between 
them. 

After a while, without lifting his head, he 
pushed her sleeve back a very little and pressed 
trembling, reverent lips upon the pulse beating 
irregularly in her slim wrist. 

“Oh, Emarine !“ he said, still without lifting 
his head. “ I love yuh — I love yuh ! I’ve suf- 
fered — oh, to think o’ you layin’ here sick, 
night after night fer a whole month, an’ me not 
here to do things fer yuh. I’ve laid awake im- 
aginin’ that yuh wanted a fresh drink an’ c’u’dn’t 
make anybody hear ; or that yuh wanted a cool 
cloth on your forrid, or a little jell-water, or 
somethin’. I’ve got up ’n the middle o’ the 
night an’ come an’ stood out at your gate tell I’d 
see a shado’ on the curt’n an’ know yuh wa’n’t 
alone Oh, Emarine, Emarine !’’ 

She moved her hand ; it touched his throat 
and curved itself there, diffidently. He threw up 
his head and looked at her. A rush of passion- 


II2 


A POINT OP KNUCKTING-DOWN 


ate, startled joy stung through him like needles, 
filling his throat. He trembled strongly. Then 
his arms were about her and he had gathered her 
up against his breast ; their lips were shaking 
together, after their long separation, in those 
kisses but one of which is worth a lifetime of all 
other kisses. 

Presently he laid her back very gently upon 
her pillow, and still knelt looking at her with 
his hand on her brow. “I’ve tired yuh,” he 
said, with earnest self-reproach. “ I won’t do ’t 
ag’in, Emarine — I promise. When I looked ’n 
your eyes an’ see that yuh’d fergive me ; when I 
felt your hand slip ’round my neck, like it ust to, 
an’ like I’ve b’en starvin' to feel it fer a month, 
Emarine — I c’u’dn’t help it, nohow ; but I won’t 
do ’t ag’in. Oh, to think that I’ve got choo 
back ag’in !’’ 

He laid his head down, still keeping his arm 
thrown, lightly and tenderly as a mother’s, over 
her. 

The sick girl looked at him. Her face settled 
into a look of stubbornness ; the exaltation that 
had transfigured it a moment before was gone. 
“You’ll have to promise me,’’ she said, “about 
your mother, you know. I’ll have to be first.’’ 

“Yuh shall be, Emarine.” 

“You’ll have to promise that if there’s any 
knucklin’-down, she’ll do ’t, an’ not me.” 


A POINT OF KNUCKTING-DOWN 


He moved uneasily. “Oh, don’t choo worry, 
Emarine. It ’ll be all right.” 

“ Well, I want it settled now. You’ll have to 
promise solemn that you’ll stand by ev’rything I 
do, an’ let me have things my way. If you don’t, 
you can go back the way you come. But I know 
you’ll keep your word if you promise.” 

“Yes,” he said, “I will.” 

But he kept his head down and did not prom- 
ise. 

“Well?” she said, and faint as she was, her 
voice was like steel. 

But still he did not promise. 

After a moment she lifted her hand and curved 
it about his throat again. He started to draw 
away, but almost instantly shuddered closer to 
her and fell to kissing the white lace around her 
neck. 

“Well,” she said, coldly, “hurry an’ make 
your choice. I hear mother a-comin’.” 

“Oh, Emarine!” he burst out, passionately. 
“I promise — I promise yuh ev’rything. My 
mother’s gittin’ old an’ childish, an’ it ain’t right, 
but I can’t give you up ag’in — I can't! I prom- 
ise — I swear I” 

Her face took on a tenderness worthy a nobler 
victory. She slipped her weak, bare arm up 
around him and drew his lips down to hers. 

An hour later he walked away from the house. 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


the happiest man in Oregon City — or in all Ore- 
gon, for that matter. Mrs. Endey watched him 
through the vines. “Well, he’s a-walkin’ knee- 
deep in promises^" she reflected, with a comfort- 
able laugh, as she sent a hot iron hissing over a 
newly sprinkled towel. ‘ ‘ I guess that mother o’ 
his’n ’ll learn a thing er two if she tries any o’ 
her back-sass with Emarine.” 

Emarine gained strength rapidly. Orville 
urged an immediate marriage, but Mrs Endey 
objected. “ I won’t hear to ’t tell Emarine gits 
her spunk back, ’ ’ she declared. ‘ ‘ When she gits 
to settin’ her heels down the way she ust to before 
she got sick, she can git married. I’ll know then 
she’s got her spunk back.” 

Toward the last of July Emarine commenced 
setting her heels down in the manner approved 
by her mother ; so, on the first of August they 
were married and went to live with Mrs. Palmer. 
At the last moment Mrs. Endey whispered grimly 
— “ Now, you mind you hold your head high.’’ 

“ Hunh'!’’ said Emarine. She lifted her chin 
so high and so suddenly that her long ear-rings 
sent out flashes in all directions. 


They had been married a full month when Mrs. 
Endey went to spend a day at the Palmer’s. She 
had a shrewd suspicion that all was not so tran- 


”5 


A POINT OF KNUCKIylNG-DOWN 


quil there as it might be. She walked in un- 
bidden and unannounced. 

It was ten o’clock. The sun shown softly 
through the languid purple haze that brooded 
upon the valley. Crickets and grasshoppers 
crackled through the grasses and ferns. The noble 
mountains glimmered mistily in the distance, 

Mrs, Palmer was sewing a patch on a table- 
cloth. Bmarine was polishing silverware, ‘ ‘ Oh !’ ’ 
she said, with a start. “ You, is ’t?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bndey, sitting down, “me. 
I come to spen’ the day.” 

“ I didn’t hear yuh knock,” said Mrs. Palmer, 
dryly. She was tall and stoop-shouldered. She 
had a thin, sour face and white hair. One knew, 
only to look at her, that life had given her all its 
bitters and but few of its sweets. 

“I reckon not,” said Mrs. Bndey, “seein’ I 
didn’t knock. I don’t knock at my own daugh- 
ter’s door. Well, forever ! Do you patch table- 
cloths, Mis’ Parmer ? I never hear tell ! I have 
see darnt ones, but I never see a patched one.” 
She laughed aggravatingly. 

“Oh, that’s nothin’,” said Bmarine, over her 
shoulder, “we have ’em made out o’ flour sacks 
here, fer breakfas’.” 

Then Mrs. Palmer laughed — a thin, bitter 
laugh. Her face was crimson. “Yaas,” she 
said, “ I use patched table-cloths, an’ table-cloths 

ii6 


A POINT OF KNUCKUNG-DOWN 


made out o’ flour sacks ; but I never did wear 
underdo ’s made out o’ unbleached muslin in my 
life.” 

Then there was a silence. Emarine gave her 
mother a look, as much as to say — ‘ ‘ What do you 
think of that?” Mrs. Endey smiled. “Thank 
mercy ! ” she said. “ Dog-days ’ll soon be over. 
The smoke’s liftin’ a leetle. I guess you an’ 
Orville ’ll git your house painted afore the fall 
rain comes on, Emarine? It needs it turrable 
bad.” 

“They ain’t got the paintin’ of it,” said Mrs. 
Palmer, cutting a thread with her teeth. “It 
don’t happen to be their house.” 

“Well, it’s all the same. It ’ll git painted if 
Emarine wants it sh’u’d. Oh, Emarine ! Where’d 
you git them funny teaspoons at ? ” 

“ They’re Orville’s mother’s.” Emarine gave 
a mirthful titter. 

‘ ‘ I want to know ! Ain’t them funny ? Thin’s 
no name fer ’m. You’d ought to see the ones 
my mother left me. Mis’ Parmer — thick, my! 
One ’u’d make the whole dozen o’ you’rn. I’ll 
have ’em out an’ ask you over to tea.” 

“I’ve heerd about ’em,” said Mrs. Palmer, 
with the placidity of a momentary triumph. 
“ The people your mother worked out fer give 
’em to her, didn’t they? My mother got her’n 
from her gran’ mother. She never worked out, 

II7 


A POINT OP KNUCKTING-DOWN 


She never lived in mucli style, but she al’ays had 
a plenty.” 

“My-(9.'” said Mrs. Endey, scornfully. 

“ I guess I’d best git the dinner on,” said Em- 
arine. She pushed the silver to one side with a 
clatter. She brought some green corn from the 
porch and commenced tearing off the pale em- 
erald husks. 

‘‘D’you want I sh’u’d help shuck it?” said 
her mother. 

” No ; I’m ust to doin’ ’t alone.” 

A silence fell upon all three. The fire made a 
cheerful noise ; the kettle steamed sociably ; 
some soup-meat, boiling, gave out a savory odor. 
Mrs. Endey leaned back comfortably in her rock- 
ing-chair. There was a challenge in the very 
fold of her hands in her lap. 

Mrs. Palmer sat erect, stiff and thin. The 
side of her face was toward Mrs. Endey. She 
never moved the fraction of an inch, but watched 
her hostilely out of the corner of her eye, like 
a hen on the defensive. 

It was Mrs. Endey who finally renewed hostil- 
ities. “Emarine,” she said, sternly, ‘‘what are 
you a-doin’ ? Shortenin’ your biscuits with 
lardT' 

‘‘Yes.” 

Mrs. Endey sniffed contemptuously. ‘‘They 
won’t be fit to eat ! You feathered your nest, 

ii8 


A POINT OP KNUCKTING-DOWN 

didn’t you? Fer mercy’s sake ! Can’t you buy 
butter to shorten your biscuits with? You’ll be 
makin’ patata soup next !” 

Then Mrs. Palmer stood up. There was a red 
spot on each cheek. 

“Mis’ Endey,’’ she said, “if yuh don’t like 
the ’comadations in this house, won’t you be so 
good ’s to go where they’re better ? I must say 
I never wear underdo’ s made out o’ unbleached 
muslin in my life ! The hull town’s see ’em on 
your clo’s line, an’ tee-hee about it behind your 
back. I notice your daughter was mighty 
ready to git inhere an ’shorten biscuits with lard, 
an’ use patched table-cloths, an’ — ’’ 

''Oh, mother!" 

It was her son’s voice. He stood in the door. 
His face was white and anxious. He looked at 
the two women ; then his eyes turned with a 
terrified entreaty to Emarine’s face. It was hard 
as flint. 

“It’s time you come,” she said, briefly. 
“Your mother just ordered my mother out o’ 
doors. Whose house is this ?” 

He was silent. 

“Say, Orville Parmer! whose house is this?” 

“ Oh, Emarine I” 

“Don’t you ’oh, Emarine’ me 1 You answer 
up !” 

“Oh, Emarine, don’t let’s quar’l. We’ve only 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


b’en married a month. I<et them quar’l, if they 
want — ” 

“You answer up. Whose house is this ? ** 

“ It’s mine,” he said in his throat. 

“ You’rn ! Your mother calls it her’n.” 

“Well, it is,” he said, with a desperation that 
rendered the situation tragic. “Oh, Bmarine, 
what’s mine ’s her’n. Father left it to me, but o’ 
course he knew it ’u’d be her’n, too. She likes 
to call it her’n.” 

“Well, she can’t turn my mother out o’ doors. 
I’m your wife an’ this is my house, if it’s 
you’rn. I guess it ain’t hardly big enough fer 
your mother an’ me, too. I reckon one o’ us had 
best git out. I don’t care much which, only I 
don’t knuckle-down to nobody. I won’t be set 
upon by nobody.” 

“Oh, Emarine !” There was terror in his 
face and voice. He huddled into a chair and 
covered his eyes with both hands. Mrs. Palmer, 
also, sat down, as if her limbs had suddenly refused 
to support her. Mrs. Endey ceased rocking and 
sat with folded hands, grimly awaiting develop- 
ments. 

Emarine stood with the backs of her hands on 
her hips. She had washed the flour off" after put- 
ting the biscuits in the oven, and the palms were 
pink and full of soft curves like rose leaves ; her 
thumbs were turned out at right angles. Her 


120 


A POINT OP KNUCKWNO-DOWN 

cheeks were crimson, and her eyes were like dia- 
monds. 

“ One o’ us ’ll have to git out,” she said again. 
“It’s fer you to say which ’n, Orville Parmer. 
I’d just as soon. I won’t upbraid you, ’f you say 
me.” 

” Well, I won’t upbraid choo, if yuh say me,” 
spoke up his mother. Her face was gray. Her 
chin quivered, but her voice was firm. “Yuh 
speak up, Orville,” 

Orville groaned — “Oh, mother ! Oh, Kmarine !” 
His head sunk lower ; his breast swelled with 
great sobs — the dry, tearing sobs that in a man 
are so terrible. “ To think that you two women 
sh’u’d both love me, an’ then torcher me this 
way ! Oh, God, what can I do er say ?” 

Suddenly Emarine uttered a cry, and ran to 
him. She tore his hands from his face and cast 
herself upon his breast, and with her delicate 
arms locked tight about his throat, set her warm, 
throbbing lips upon his eyes, his brow, his mouth, 
in deep, compelling kisses. “I’m your wife ! 
I’m your wife! I’m your wife!” she panted. 
“You promised ev’rything to get me to marry 
you ! Can you turn me out now, an’ make me a 
laughin’-stawk fer the town ? Can you give me 
up ? You love me, an’ I love you ! Eet me show 
you how I love you — ” 

She felt his arms close around her convulsively. 



I2I 


A POINT OP ENUCKLINO-DOWN j 

Then his mother arose and came to them, and 
laid her wrinkled, shaking hand on his shoulder. 
“My son,” she said, “let show yuh how / 
love yuh. I’m your mother. I’ve worked fer 
yuh, an’ done fer yuh all your life, but the time’s 
come fer me to take a back seat. Its be’n hard — 
it’s be’n offul hard — an’ I guess I’ve be’n mean 
an’ hateful to Kmarine — but it’s be’n hard. 
Yuh keep Emarine, an’ I’ll go. Yuh want her 
an’ I want choo to be happy. Don’t choo worry 
about me — I’ll git along all right. Yuh won’t 
have to decide — I’ll go of myself. That’s the 
way mothers love, my son !” 

She walked steadily out of the kitchen ; and 
though her head was shaking, it was carried 
high. 


PART III 

It was the day before Christmas — an Oregon 
Christmas. It had rained mistily at dawn; but 
at ten o’clock the clouds had parted and moved 
away reluctantly. There was a blue and dazzling 
sky overhead. The rain-drops still sparkled on 
the windows and on the green grass, and the last 
roses and chrysanthemums hung their beautiful 
heads heavily beneath them; but there was to be 
no more rain. Oregon City’s mighty barometer — 
the Falls of the Willamette — was declaring to her 


122 


A POIN'T OP KNUCKUNG-DOWN 


people by her softened roar that the morrow was 
to be fair. 

Mrs. Orville Palmer was in the large kitchen 
making preparations for the Christmas dinner. 
She was a picture of dainty loveliness in a laven- 
der gingham dress, made with a full skirt and a 
shirred waist and big leg-o’ -mutton sleeves. A 
white apron was tied neatly around her waist. 

Her husband came in, and paused to put his 
arm around her and kiss her. She was stirring 
something on the stove, holding her dress aside 
with one hand. 

“It’s goin’ to be a fine Christmas, Emarine,’’ 
he said, and sighed unconsciously. There was a 
wistful and careworn look on his face. 

“ Beautiful ! ” said Emarine, vivaciously. “Go- 
in’ down-town, Orville ? ” 

‘ ‘ Yes. Want anything ? ’ ’ 

“Why, the cranberries ain’t come yet. I’m 
so uneasy about ’em. They’d ought to b’en 
stooed long ago. I like ’em cooked down an’ 
strained to a jell. I don’t see what ails them 
groc’rymen ! Sh’u’d think they c’u’d get around 
.some time before doomsday ! Then, I want — here, 
you’d best set it down.” She took a pencil and 
a slip of paper from a shelf over the table and 
gave them to him. “Now, let me see.” She 
commenced stirring again, with two little wrinkles 
between her brows. “A ha’f a pound o’ citron; a 


123 


A POINT OP KNUCKTING-DOWN 


ha’f a pound o’ candied peel ; two pounds o’ 
cur’nts; two pounds o’ raisins — git ’em stunned, 
Orville; a pound o’ sooet — make ’em give you 
some that ain’t all strings ! A box o’ Norther’ 
Spy apples; a ha’f a dozen lemons; four-bits’ 
worth o’ walnuts or a’monds, whichever’ s fresh- 
est; a pint o’ Puget Sound oysters fer the dressin’, 
an’ a bunch o’ cel’ry. You stop by an’ see about 
the turkey, Orville ; an’ I wish you’d run in ’s 
you go by mother’s an’ teil her to come up as 
soon as she can. She’d ought to be here now.” 

Her husband smiled as he finished the list. 
“You’re a wonderful housekeeper, Kmarine,” he 
said. 

Then his face grew grave. “ Got a present fer 
your mother yet, Emarine ? ” 

“Oh, yes, long ago. I got ’er a black shawl 
down t’ Charman’s. She’s b’en wantin’ one.” 

He shuffled his feet about a little. “ Unh- 
hunh. Yuh — that is — I reckon yuh ain’t picked 
out any present fer — fer my mother, have yuh, 
Emarine? ” 

“ No,” she replied, with cold distinctness. “I 
ain’t.” 

There was a silence. Emarine stirred briskly. 
The lines grew deeper between her brows. Two 
red spots came into her cheeks. ‘ ‘ I hope the rain 
ain’t spoilt the chrysyanthums,” she said then, 
with an air of ridding herself of a disagreeable 
subject. 


A POINT OF KNUCKUNG-DOWN 


Orville made no answer. He moved liis feet 
again uneasily. Presently lie said: “I expect 
my mother needs a black shawl, too. Seemed to 
me her’n looked kind o’ rusty at church Sunday. 
Notice it, Emarine ? ” 

“No,” said Emarine. 

‘ ‘ Seemed to me she was gittin’ to look offul 
old. Emarine ” — his voice broke; he came a step 
nearer — “ it’ll be the first Christmas dinner I ever 
eat without my mother.” 

She drew back and looked at him. He knew 
the look that flashed into her eyes, and shrank 
from it. 

“You don’t have to eat this’n’ without ’er, 
Orville Parmer ! You go an’ eat your dinner 
with your mother, ’f you want ! I can get along 
alone. Are you goin’ to order them things ? If 
you ain’t, just say so, an’ I’ll go an’ do ’t my- 
self!” 

He put on his hat and went without a word. 

Mrs. Palmer took the saucepan from the stove 
and set it on the hearth. Then she sat down and 
leaned her cheek in the palm of her hand, and 
looked steadily out of the window. Her eyelids 
trembled closer together. Her eyes held a far- 
sighted look. She saw a picture; but it w'as not 
the picture of the blue reaches of sky, and the 
green valley cleft by its silver-blue river. She 
saw a kitchen, shabby, compared to her own, 


125 


A POIN'T OP KNUCKLING-DOWN 

scantily fnmislied, and in it an old, white-liaired 
woman sitting down to eat her Christmas dinner 
alone. 

After a while she arose with an impatient sigh. 
“ Well, I can’t help it ! ” she exclaimed. “ If I 
knuckled-down to her this time, I’d have to do ’t 
ag’in. She might just as well get ust to ’t, first 
as last. I wish she hadn’t got to lookin’ so old 
an’ pitiful, though, a-settin’ there in front o’ us 
in church Sunday after Sunday. The cords 
stand out in her neck like well-rope, an’ her chin 
keeps a-quiv’rin’ so 1 I can see Orville a- watch- 
in’ her ” 

The door opened suddenly and her mother en- 
tered. She was bristling with curiosity. “Say, 
Emarine!’’ She lowered her voice, although 
there was no one to hear. “Where d’ you s’ pose 
the undertaker’s a-goin’ up by here ? Have you 
hear of anybody ’’ 

“No,” said Emarine. “Did Orville stop by 
an’ tell you to hurry up ? ” 

“Yes. What’s the matter of him? Is he 
sick ? ’ ’ 

“ Not as I know of. Why ? ” 

“ He looks so. Oh, I wonder if it’s one o’ the 
Peterson childem where the undertaker’s a-goin’ ! 
They’ve all got the quinsy sore throat.” 

“How does he look? I don’t see ’s he looks 
so turrable.” 


126 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


“ Why, Emarine Parmer ! Ev’rybody in town 
says he looks so! I only hope they don’t know 
what ails him ! ” 

“What does ail him?” cried out Emarine, 
fiercely. “What are you hintin’ at ? ” 

“Well, if you don’t know what ails him, 
you’d ort to; so I’ll tell you. He’s dyin’ by 
inches ever sence you turned his mother out o’ 
doors.” 

Emarine turned white. Sheet lightning played 
in her eyes. 

“Oh, you’d ought to talk about my turnin’ 
her out !” she burst out, furiously. “After you 
a-settin’ here a-quar’l’n’ with her in this very 
kitchen, an’ eggin’ me on ! Wa’n’t she goin’ to 
turn you out o’ your own daughter’s home? 
Wa’n’t that what I turned her out fer? I didn’t 
' turn her out, anyhow ! I only told Orville this 
house wa’n’t big enough fer his mother an’ me, 
an’ that neither o’ us ’u’d knuckle-down, so he’d 
best take his choice. You’d ought to talk ! ” 

“Well, if I egged you on, I’m sorry fer ’t,” 
said Mrs. Endey, solemnly. ‘ ‘ Ever sence that fit 
o’ sickness I had a month ago, I’ve feel kind o’ 
old an’ no account myself, as if I’d like to let all 
holts go, an’ just rest. I don’t spunk up like I 
list to. No, he didn’t go to Peterson’s — he’s 
gawn right on. My land ! I wonder ’f it ain’t 
old gran’ma Eliot; she had a bad spell — no, he 


T27 1 


A. POIN'r OF knucklinA-down 

didn’t turn that corner. I can’t think where he’s 
goin’ to ! ” 

She sat down with a sigh of defeat. 

A smile glimmered palely across Emarine’s 
face and was gone. “ Maybe if you’d go up in 
the antic you could see better,” she suggested, 
dryly. 

“Oh, Emarine, here comes old gran’ma Eliot 
herself ! Run an’ open the door fer ’er. She’s 
limpin’ worse ’n usual.” 

Emarine flew to the door. Grandma Eliot was 
one of the few people she loved. She was large 
and motherly. She wore a black dress and shawl 
and a funny bonnet, with a frill of white lace 
around her brow. 

Emarine’s face softened when she kissed her. 
“ I’m so glad to see you,” she said, and her voice 
was tender. 

Even Mrs. Endey’s face underwent a change. 
Usually it wore a look of doubt, if not of positive 
suspicion, but now it fairly beamed. She shook 
hands cordially with the guest and led her to a 
comfortable chair. 

“I know your rheumatiz is worse,” she said, 
cheerfully, “ because you’re limpin’ so. Oh, did 
you see the undertaker go up by here ? We can’t 
think where he’s goin’ to. D’ you happen to 
know? ” 

“No, I don’t; an’ I don’t want to, neither.” 

128 


A POINT OF KNUCKUNG-DOWN 


Mrs. Eliot laughed comfortably. “Mis’ Endey, 
you don’t ketch me foolin’ with undertakers till 
I have to.’’ She sat down and removed her 
black cotton gloves. “I’m -gettin’ to that age 
when I don’t care much where undertakers go to 
so long ’s they let me alone. Fixin’ fer Christ- 
mas dinner, Emarine dear ? ” 

“Yes, ma’am,’’ said Emarine in her very gen- 
tlest tone. Her mother had never said “dear’’ 
to her, and the sound of it on this old lady’s lips 
was sweet. “Won’t you come an’ take dinner 
with us?’’ 

The old lady laughed merrily. “Oh, 'dearie 
me, dearie me ! You don’t guess my son’s folks 
could spare me now, do you? I spend ev’ry 
Christmas there. They most carry me on two 
chips. My son’s wife, Sidonie, she nearly runs 
her feet off waitin’ on me. She can’t do enough 
fer me. My, Mrs. Endey, you don’t know what 
a comfort a daughter-in-law is when you get old 
an’ feeble ! ” 

Emarine’ s face turned red. She went to the 
table and stood with her back to the older woman ; 
but her mother’s sharp eyes observed that her ears 
grew scarlet. 

“An’ I never will,” said Mrs. Endey, grimly. 

“You’ve got a son-in-law, though, who’s worth 
a whole townful of most son-in-laws. H( was 
such a good son, too ; jest worshipped his mo'.uer ; 


/ ' 

A POINT OF KNUCKTirSTG-DOWN 

couldn’t bear her out o’ his sight. He humored 
her high an’ low. That’s jest the way ^idonie 
does with me. I’m gettin’ cranky ’s I get older, 
an’ sometimes I’m reel cross an’ sassy to her ; but 
she jest laffs at me, an’ then comes an’ kisses me, 
an’ I’m all right ag’in. It’s a blessin’ right from 
God to have a daughter-in-law like that. ’ ’ 

The knife in Bmarine’s hand slipped, and she 
uttered a little cry. 

“ Hurt you?” demanded her mother, sternly. 

Emarine was silent, and did not turn. 

” Cut you, Emarine? Why don’t you answer 
me? Aigh?” 

“A little,” said Emarine. She went into the 
pantry, and presently returned with a narrow strip 
of muslin which she wound around her finger. 

“Well, I never see ! You never will learn any 
gumption ! Why don’t you look what you’re 
about? Now, go around Christmas with your 
finger all tied up !” 

“Oh, that’ll be all right by to-morrow,” said 
Mrs. Eliot, cheerfully. ‘‘Won’t it, Emarine? 
Never cry over spilt milk, Mrs. Endey ; it makes 
a body get wrinkles too fast. O’ course Orville’s 
mother’s cornin’ to take dinner with you, Ema- 
rine.” 

‘‘ Dear me !” exclaimed Emarine, in a sudden 
flutter. “I don’t see why them cranberries don’t 


130 


A POINT OF KNUCKI.ING-DOWN 


come ! I told Orville to hurry ’em up. I’d best 
make the floatin’ island while I wait.” 

“I stopped at Orville’s mother’s as I came 
along.” 

“How?” Bmarine turned in a startled way 
from the table. 

‘ ‘ I say, I stopped at Orville’s mother’s as I come 
along, Emarine.” 

” Oh !” 

“She well?” asked Mrs. Endey. 

“ No, she ain’t ; shakm’ like she had the Saint 
Vitus dance. She’s failed harrable lately. She’d 
b’en cryin’; her eyes was all swelled up.” 

There was quite a silence. Then Mrs. Endey 
said — “What she b’en cryin’ about?” 

“Why, when I asked her she jest laffed kind o’ 
pitiful, an’ said : ‘ Oh, only my tomfoolishness, 

o’ course.’ Said she always got to thinkin’ about 
other Christmases. But I cheered her up. I 
told her what a good time I always had at my 
son’s, and how Sidonie jest couldn’t do enough 
fer me. An’ I told her to think what a nice time 
she’d have here ’t Emarine’ s to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Endey smiled. ‘ ‘ What she say to that ?” 

“She didn’t say much. I could see she was 
thankful, though, she had a son’s to go to. She 
said she pitied all poor wretches that had to set 
out their Christmas alone. Poor old lady ! she 
ain’t got much spunk left. She’s all broke down. 


A POINT OP K.NUCKTING-DOWN 


But I cheered her up some. Sech a wishful look 
took holt o’ her when I pictchered her dinner over 
here at Emarine’s. I can’t seem to forget it. 
Goodness ! I must go. I’m on my way to Sido- 
nie’s, an’ she’ll be cornin’ after me if I ain’t on 
time.” 

When Mrs. Eliot had gone limping down the 
path, Mrs. Endey said: “You got your front 
room red up, Emarine?” 

“ No ; I ain’t had time to red up anything.” 

“Well, I’ll doit. Where’s your duster at?” 

“ Behind the org’n. You can get out the wax 
cross again. Mis’ Dillon was here with all her 
childem, an’ I had to hide up ev’ry thing. I 
never see childern like her’ n. She lets ’ em handle 
things so !” 

Mrs. Endey went into the “front room” and 
began to dust the organ. She was something of 
a diplomat, and she wished to be alone for a few 
minutes. “You have to manage Emarine by 
contrairies,” she reflected. It did not occur to 
her that this was a family trait. “I’m oflFul sorry 
I ever egged her on to turnin’ Orville’s mother 
out o’ doors, but who’d ’a’ thought it ’u’d break 
her down so? She ain’t told a soul either. I 
reckoned she’d talk somethin’ ofiul about us, but 
she ain’t told a soul. She’s kep’ a stiff upper lip 
an’ told folks she al’ays expected to live alone when 
Orville got married. Emarine’s all worked up. 

132 


A POINT OF KNUCKTING-DOWN 


I believe the Lord hisself must ’a’ sent gran’ma 
Eliot here to talk like an angel unawares. I bet 
she’d go an’ ask Mis’ Parmer over here to dinner 
if she wa’n’t afraid I’d laff at her fer knucklin’- 
down. I’ll have to aggravate her.” 

She finished dusting, and returned to the 
kitchen. “I wonder what gran’ma Eliot ’u’d 
say if she knew you’d turned Orville’s mother 
out, Emarine?” 

There was no reply. Emarine was at the table 
mixing the plum pudding. Her back was to her 
mother. 

” I didn’t mean what I said about bein’ sorry 
I egged you on, Emarine. I’m glad you turned 
her out. She’d to be turned out.” 

Emarine put a handful of floured raisins into 
the mixture and stirred it all together briskly. 

” Gran’ma Eliot can go talkin’ about her daugh- 
ter-in-law Sidonie all she wants, Emarine. You 
keep a stiff upper lip.” 

” I can ’tend to my own affairs,” said Emarine, 
fiercely. 

“Well, don’t flare up so. Here comes Orville. 
Land, but he does look peakid !” 

After supper, when her mother had gone home 
for the night, Emarine put on her hat and shawl. 

Her husband was sitting by the fireplace, look- 
ing thoughtfully at the bed of coals. 


133 


A POINT OF KNUCKUNG-DOWN 


‘ ‘ I’m goin’ out, ’ ’ she said, briefly. ‘ ‘ You keep 
the fire up.” 

” Why, Emarine, its dark. Don’t choo want I 
sh’u’d go along?” 

” No ; you keep the fire up.” 

He looked at her anxiously, but he knew from 
the way she set her heels down that remonstrance 
would be useless. 

“Don’t stay long,” he said, in a tone of ha- 
bitual tenderness. He loved her passionately, in 
spite of the lasting hurt she had given him when 
she parted him from his mother. It was a hurt 
that had sunk deeper than even he realized. It 
lay heavy on his heart day and night. It took 
the blue out of the sky, and the green out of the 
grass, and the gold out of the sunlight ; it took 
the exaltation and the rapture out of his tenderest 
moments of love. 

He never reproached her, he never really blamed 
her ; certainly he never pitied himself. But he car- 
ried a heavy heart around with him, and his few 
smiles were joyless things. 

For the trouble he blamed only himself. He had 
promised Emarine solemnly before he married her 
that if there were any “ knuckling-down ” to be 
done, his mother should be the one to do it. He 
had made the promise deliberately, and he could 
no more have broken it than he could have 
changed the color of his eyes. When bitter 


134 


A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN 


feeling arises between two relatives by marriage, 
it is the one who stands between them — the one 
who is bound by the tenderest ties to both — who 
has the real suffering to bear, who is torn and 
tortured until life holds nothing worth the hav- 
ing. 

Orville Palmer was the one who stood between. 
He had built his own cross, and he took it up and 
bore it without a word. 

Emarine hurried through the early winter dark 
until she came to the small and poor house where 
her husband’s mother lived. It was off the main- 
traveled street. 

There was a dim light in the kitchen ; the cur- 
tain had not been drawn. Emarine paused and 
looked in. The sash was lifted six inches, for the 
night was warm, and the sound of voices came to 
her at once. Mrs. Palmer had company. 

“It’s Miss Presly,’’ said Emarine, resentfully, 
under her breath. “ Old gossip !’’ 

“ — goin’ to have a fine dinner, I hear,’’ Miss 
Presly was saying. ‘ ‘ Turkey with oyster dressin’ , 
an’ cranberries, an’ mince an’ pun’kinpie, an’ reel 
plum puddin’ with brandy poured over ’t an’ set 
afire, an’ wine dip, an’ nuts, an’ raisins, an’ wine 
itself to wind up on. Emarine’s a fine cook. She 
knows how to get up a dinner that makes your 
mouth water to think about. You goin’ to have a 
spread. Mis’ Parmer?’’ 


135 


A POINT OF KNUCKTING-DOWN 


“Not much of a one,” said Orville’s mother. 
“ I expected to, but I c’u’dn’t get them fall pata- 
las sold off. I’ll have to keep ’em till spring to 
git any kind o’ price. I don’t care much about 
Christinas, though ’ ’ — her chin was trembling, 
but she lifted it high. “It’s silly for anybody 
but childern to build so much on Christmas.” 

Emarine opened the door and walked in. Mrs. 
Palmer arose slowly, grasping the back of her 
chair. “Orville’s dead?” she said, solemnly. 

Emarine laughed, but there was the tenderness 
of near tears in her voice. “Oh, my, no !” she 
said, sitting down. “I run over to ask you to 
come to Christmas dinner. I was too busy all 
day to come sooner. I’m goin’ to have a great 
dinner, an’ I’ve cooked ev’ry single thing of it 
myself ! I want to show you what a fine Christ- 
mas dinner your daughter- ’n-law can get up. 
Dinner’s at two, an’ I want you to come at eleven. 
Will you?” 

Mrs. Palmer had sat down, weakly. Trem- 
bling was not the word to describe the feeling that 
had taken possession of her. She was shivering. 
She wanted to fall down on her knees and put her 
arms around her son’s wife, and sob out all her 
loneliness and heartache. But life is a stage ; 
and Miss Presly was an audience not to be ignored. 
So Mrs. Palmer said: “Well, I’ll be reel glad 
o come, Emarine. It’s offul kind o’ yuh to think 
136 


A POINT OP KNUCKtING-DOWN 


of ’t. It ’u’d ’a’ be’n lonesome eatin’ here all by 
myself, I expect.” 

Kmarine stood up. Her heart was like a this- 
tle-down. Her eyes were shining. ‘ ‘ All right, ’ ’ 
she said ; “ an’ I want that you sh’u’d come just 
at eleven. I must run right back now. Good- 
night.” 

“ Well, I declare !” said Miss Presly. “That 
girl gits prettier ev’ry day o’ her life. Why, she 
just looked full o' glame to-night !” 


Orville was not at home when his mother ar- 
rived in her rusty best dress and shawl. Mrs. 
Endey saw her coming. She gasped out, ‘ ‘ Why, 
good grieve ! Here’s Mis’ Parmer, Emarine !” 

“Yes, I know,” said Emarine, calmly. “I ast 
her to dinner.” 

She opened the door, and shook hands with her 
mother-in-law, giving her mother a look of de- 
fiance that almost upset that lady’s gravity. 

“You set right down. Mother Parmer, an’ let 
me take your things. Orville don’t know you’re 
cornin’, an’ I just want to see his face when he 
comes in. Here’s a new black shawl fer your 
Christmas. I got mother one just like it. See 
what nice long fringe it’s got. Oh, my, don’t go 
to cry in’! Here comes Orville.” 

She stepped aside quickly. When her husband 


137 


A POINT OP knuckting-down 


entered his eyes fell instantly on his mother, weep- 
ing childishly over the new shawl. She was in 
the old splint rocking-chair with the high back. 

Mother T' he cried ; then he gave a frightened, 
tortured glance at his wife. Emarine smiled at 
him, but it was through tears. 

“Emarine ast me, Orville — she ast me to din- 
ner o’ herself ! An’ she give me this shawl. I’m 
— cryin’ — fer — joy ’’ 

“I ast her to dinner,” said Emarine, “but she 
ain’t ever goin’ back again. She’s goin’ to stay. 
I expect we’ve both had enough of a lesson to 
do us.” 

Orville did not speak. He fell on his knees 
and laid his head, like a boy, in his mother’s lap, 
and reached one strong but trembling arm up to 
his wife’s waist, drawing her down to him. 

Mrs. Endey got up and went to rattling things 
around on the table vigorously. “ Well, I never 
see sech a pack o’ loonatics !” she exclaimed. 
“ Go an’ bum all your Christmas dinner up, if I 
don’t look after it ! Turncoats ! I expect they’ll 
both be failin’ over theirselves to knuckle-down 
to each other from now on ! I never see !” 

But there was something in her eyes, too, that 
made them beautiful. 


138 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


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4 




THE CUTTIN’-OUT OE BART WINN 


“ Eavin-ee !” 

“Well?” 

Mrs. Vaiden came to the foot of the stairs. 

“You up there?” she said. 

“ Yes, maw. What you want ?” 

“Somebody’s cornin’,” said Mrs. Vaiden, low- 
ering her voice to a tone of important mystery. 

“I guess not here,” said Eavinia, lightly. 
She sat down on the top step and smiled at her 
mother. 

“Yes, it is here, too,” retorted Mrs. Vaiden, 
with some irritation. “If you couldn’t conter- 
dict a body ’t wouldn’t be you ! You’re just like 
your paw!” She paused, and then added : “It’s 
a man a-foot. He’s cornin’ up the path slow, 
a-stoppin’ to look at the flowers.” 

“Maybe it’s the minister, ” said the girl, still 
regarding her mother with a good-natured, teas- 
ing smile. 

“No, it ain’t the minister, either. As if I 
didn’t know the minister when I see him I You 
do aggravate me so I It’s a young fello’, an’ he’s 
all dressed up. You’ll have to go to the door.” 

“ Oh, maw !” cried Eavinia, reproachfully. “ I 
just can’t 1 In this short dress ?” 

141 


The CUTTIN’-ODT OE BART WINN 


She stood up, with a look of dismay, and be- 
gan pulling nervously at her fresh gingham skirt. 
It was short, showing very prettily-arched insteps 
and delicate ankles. 

“Well, you just can, an’ haf to,” said Mrs. 
Vaiden, shortly. “ I’ve told you often enough 
to put a ruffle on the bottom o’ that dress, an’ 
I’m glad you’re caught. Mebbe you’ll do’s I 
tell you after this — ” 

She started guiltily as a loud rap sounded upon 
the door behind her, and began to tiptoe heavily 
down the hall toward the kitchen. The girl 
looked after her in mingled amusement and cha- 
grin. Then she leaned forward slightly, drawing 
the skirt back closely on both sides, and looked at 
her feet, with her head turned on one side like a 
bird. When the cessation of her mother’s labored 
breathing announced silently that she had reached 
the kitchen in safety, Lavinia shrugged her beau- 
tiful shoulders — which no gown could conceal 
— and opened the door. A young man in a light 
traveling-suit stood before her. In his hand was 
a bunch of her own sweet-peas. 

At sight of her he whisked off his hat in a 
way that brought a lovely color to her face and 
throat. For a little while it seemed as if he were 
not going to say or do anything but just look at 
her. She was well worth looking at. She had 
the rare beauty of velvet eyes of a reddish-brown 


142 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OE BART WINN 


color, hair wavy and brown, with red glints in it, 
and a clear complexion, unfreckled and of exqui- 
site coloring. 

I,avinia’s eyes went to the sweet-peas, and then, 
with a deeper blush under them, to his face. 

“ Won’t you come in ?” she said, 

“Why, yes, if you’ll let me.” The young 
man smiled, and Tavinia found her lips and eyes 
responding, in all the lightness of youth and a 
clear conscience. 

“I couldn’t help taking some of your sweet- 
peas, ’ ’ he said, following her into the parlor. It 
was a large, solemn-looking room. The blinds 
were lowered over the windows, but the girl raised 
one slightly, letting a splash of pale autumnal sun- 
shine flicker across the hit-and-miss rag carpet. 
There was an organ in one corner and a hair- 
cloth sofa in another. Eight slender-legged 
hair-cloth chairs were placed at severely equal 
distances around the room, their backs resting 
firmly against the walls. All tipped forward 
slightly, their front legs being somewhat shorter 
than the others. On the back of each was a 
small, square crocheted tidy. There were some 
family portraits on the walls, in oval gilt frames ; 
and there was a large picture of George Wash- 
ington and family, on their stateliest behavior; 
another, named in large letters “The Journey of 
Eife,” of an uncommonly roomy row-boat con- 


143 


THE CUTTIn’-OUT OE BART WINN 


taining at least a dozen persons, wlio were sup- 
posed to represent all ages from the cradle to 
the grave ; in the wide, white margin beneath 
this picture were two verses of beautiful, des- 
criptive poetry, and in one corner appeared, with 
apparent irrelevancy, the name of an illustrated 
newspaper. There was also a chromo of a scantily- 
attired woman clinging to a cross which was set 
in the midst of dashing sea-waves; and there 
was a cheerful photograph, in a black cloth frame, 
of flowers — made into harps, crosses, anchors 
and hearts — which had been sent at some time 
of bereavement by sympathetic but misguided 
friends. A marble-topped centre-table held a 
large plush album, a scrap book, a book of 
autographs, a lamp with a pale-green shade, and 
a glass case containing a feather- wreath. 

“Oh, we’ve got lots of sweet-peas,” said 
Lavinia, adjusting the blind carefully. Then she 
looked at him. 

“May I see Mrs. Vaiden?” he asked, easily. 

“She’s — busy,” said Lavinia, with a look of 
embarrassment. “ But I’ll see — ” 

“Oh, don’t,” interrupted the young man 
lightly. ‘ ‘ They told me at the post-oflEice she took 
boarders sometimes, and I came to see if there 
was a chance for me. ’ ’ He handed a card to the 
girl with an air of not knowing that he was doing 
it. Her very eyelids seemed to blush as she looked 


144 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


at it and read the name — Mr. C. Daun Diller. 
‘ ‘ I am writing up the Puget Sound country for a 
New York paper, and I should like to make my 
headquarters here at Whatcom, but I can’t stand 
the hotels in your new towns. It’s the most amaz- 
ing thing !” he went on, smiling at her as she 
stood twisting the card in her fingers, not know- 
ing exactly what to do with it. “You go to 
sleep at night in a Puget Sound village with the 
fronts of the stores painted green, blue and red, 
spasmodic patches of sidewalk here and there, 
dust ankle deep, and no street-lights — and you 
wake iu the morning in a city ! A city with fine 
stone blocks and residences, stone pavements, 
electric lights and railways, gas, splendid water- 
works,” — he was checking ofiT now, excitedly, on 
his fingers, — “sewerage, big mills, factories, can- 
neries, public schools that would make the East 
stare, churches, libraries” — he stopped abruptly, 
and, dropping his arms limply to his sides, added 
— “ and not a hotel ! Not a comfortable bed or 
a good meal to be had for love or money !” 

“Yes, that’s so,” said Eavinia, reluctantly. 
“But you can’t expect us to get everything all 
at onct. Why, Whatcom’s boom only started 
in six months ago.” 

Mr. C. Daun Diller looked amused. “Oh, if 
it were this town only,” he said, sitting down on 
one of the hair-cloth chairs and feeling himself 


145 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT of BART WINN 


slide gently forward, ‘ ‘ I shouldn’t have mentioned 
it. But the truth is, there are only three decent 
hotels in the whole Puget Sound country. But 
I know” — here he smiled at her again — “that 
it’s not safe to breathe a word against Puget Sound 
to a Puget-Sounder. ” 

“No, it ain’t,” said the girl, responding to the 
smile and the respectfully bantering tone. Then 
she moved to the door. “Well, I’ll see what 
maw says to it,” she said, and vanished. 

Mr. C. Daun Diller stood up and pushed his 
hands down into his pockets, whistling softly. 
He walked over to the organ and looked at the 
music. There were three large books : ‘ ‘ The 

Home Circle,” “ The Golden Chord,” and “The 
Family Treasure;” a “ simplified ” copy of “The 
Maiden’s Prayer,” and a book of “Gospel 
Songs.” 

The 5’^oung man smiled. 

“All the same,” he said, as if in answer to a 
disparaging remark made by some one else, 
“she’s about the handsomest girl I ever saw. 
I’m getting right down anxious to see myself 
what ‘ maw ’ will ‘ say to it.’” 

After a long while Mrs. Vaiden appeared in a 
crisply-starched gingham dress and a company 
manner — both of which had been freshly put on 
for the occasion. Mr. Diller found her rather 
painfully polite, and he began to wonder, after 

146 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


paying his first week’s board, whether he could 
endure two or three months of her; but he was 
quite, quite sure that he could endure a full year 
of the daughter. 

A eouple of evenings later he was sitting by 
the window in his quaint but exquisitely neat 
room, writing, when a light rap came upon his 
door. Upon opening it he found Uavinia stand- 
ing, bashfully, a few steps away. There was a 
picturesque, broad-brimmed hat set coquettishly 
on her splendid hair. 

“Maw wanted I sh’u’d ask you if you’d like 
to see an Indian eanoe-race,” she said. 

“ Would I ? ” he ejaculated, getting into a great 
excitement at onee. “Well, I should say so! 
Awfully good of your mother to think — but where 
is it — when is it ? How can I see it ? ” 

“It’s down by the viaduck — right now,’’ said 
Lavinia. Then she added, shyly, pretending to 
be deeply engrossed with her glove: “I’m just 
goin’.’’ 

“Oh, are you?’’ said Diller, seizing his hat 
and stick and coming eagerly out to her. ‘ ‘And 
may I go with you ? Will you take me in hand ? 
I haven’t the ghost of an idea where the viaduct 
is.” 

“Oh, yes. I’ll show you,” she said, with a glad 
little laugh, and they went swiftly down the 
stairs and out into the sweet evening. 


147 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT of BART WINN 


“You know,” she said, as he opened the gate 
for her with a deference to which she was not ac- 
customed, and which gave her a thrill of innocent 
exultation, “the Alaska Indians are just cornin’ 
back from hop-pickin’ down around Puyallup an’ 
Yakima an’ Seattle, an’ they alwus stop here an’ 
have races with the Lummies an’ the Nook- 
sacks.” 

Mr. Diller drew a deep breath. 

“Do you know,” he said, “I wouldn’t have 
missed this for anything — not for anything I can 
think of. And yet I should if it hadn’t been 
for” — he hesitated, and then added — “your 
mother.” They looked into each other’s eyes and 
laughed, very foolishly and happily. 

The sun was setting — moving slowly, scarlet 
and of dazzling brilliancy, down the western sky, 
which shaded rapidly from pale blue to salmon, and 
from salmon to palest pea-green. Beneath, su- 
perbly motionless, at full tide, the sound stretched 
mile on mile away to Dummi peninsula, whose 
hills the sun now touched — every fir-tree on those 
noble crests standing out against that burnished 
background. A broad, unbroken path of gold 
stretched from shore to shore. Some sea-gulls 
were circling in endless, silvery rings through the 
amethystine haze between sea and sky. The old, 
rotten pier running a mile out to sea shone like a 
strip of gold above the deep blue water. It was 
148 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT of BART WINN 


crowded with people, indifferent to danger in their 
eagerness to see the races. Indeed, there seemed 
to be people everywhere ; on the high banks, the 
piers, and the mills scattered over the tide-flats, 
and out in row boats. Two brass bands were 
playing stirring strains alternately. There was 
much excitement — much shouting, hurrying, run- 
ning. The crowd kept swaying from the viaduct 
over to the pier, and from the pier back to the 
viaduct. Nobody seemed to be quite sure where 
the start would be ; even the three judges, when 
asked, yelled back, as they clambered down to 
their row-boat: “We don’t know. Wait and 
see ! ” 

“What accommodating persons,” said Mr. 
Diller, cheerfully. “Shall we go over to the 
pier? The tide seems to be running that way.” 

“Oh, the tide’s not running now,” said Ta- 
vinia. “It’s full.” 

Diller looked amused. “ I meant the people,” 
he said. 

The girl laughed and looked around on the 
pushing crowd. “I guess we’d best stop right 
here on the viaduck ; here’s just where they 
started last year an’ the year before. Oh, see, 
here’s the Alaskas camped pretty near under us !” 

As she lifted her voice a little Diller saw a 
young man standing near start and turn toward 
her with a glad look of recognition ; but at once 


149 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


his glance rested on Diller, and his expression 
changed to a kind of puzzled bewilderment. The 
girl was leaning over the railing and did not see 
him, but he never took his eyes away from her 
and Diller. 

There was a long wait, but the crowd did not 
lose its patience or its good humor. There was 
considerable betting going on, and there was the 
same exciting uncertainty about the start. The 
sun went down and a bank of apricot-colored 
clouds piled low over the snow crest of Mount 
Baker in the Bast. The pier darkened and the 
path of gold faded, but splashes of scarlet still 
lingered on the blue water. A chill, sweet wind 
started up suddenly, and some of the girl’s bronze 
curls got loose about her white temples. Diller 
put her wrap around her carefully, and she smiled 
up at him deliciously. Then she cried out: 
“Oh, they’re gettin’ into the boat! They’re 
goin’ to start. Oh, I’m so glad !’’ and struck her 
two hands together gleefully, like a child. 

The long, narrow, richly-painted and carven 
canoe slid down gracefully into the water. Bleven 
tall, supple Alaskan Indians, bare to the waist, 
leaped lightly to their places. They sat erect, 
close to the sides of the boat, holding their short 
paddles perpendicularly. At a signal the paddles 
shot straight down into the water, and, with a 
swift, magnificent straining and sw'elling of 

150 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT op BART WINN 


muscles in the powerful bronze arms and bodies, 
were pushed backward and withdrawn in light- 
ning strokes. The canoe flashed under the via- 
duct and appeared on the other side, and a great 
shout belched from thousands of throats. From 
camping-places farther up the shore the other 
boats darted out into the water and headed for 
the viaduct. 

“Oh, good! good!” cried Tavinia in a very 
ecstasy of excitement. “They’re goin’ to start 
right under us. We’re just in the place !” 

“ Twenty dollars on the Nooksacks !” yelled a 
blear-eyed man in a carriage. ‘ ‘ Twenty ! Twenty 
ag’inst ten on the Nooksacks !” 

The band burst into “Hail, Columbia !” with 
beautiful irrelevancy. The crowd came surging 
back from the pier. Diller was excited, too. His 
face was flushed and he was breathing heavily. 
“Who’ll you bet on?” he asked, laughing, and 
thinking, even at that moment, how ravishingly 
lovely she was with that glow on her face and 
the loose curls blowing about her face and throat. 

“Oh, the Alaskas !" cried the girl, striking lit- 
tle blows of impatience on the railing with her 
soft fists. “They’re so tall an’ fine-lookin’! 
They’re so strong an’ grand ! Look at their 
muscles — just like ropes! Oh, I’ll bet on the 
Alaskas ! I love tall men !” 

“ Do you?” said Diller. “I’m tall.” 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT of BART WINN 


They looked into each other’s eyes again and 
laughed. Then a voice spoke over their shoul- 
ders — a kind, patient voice. “Oh, Laviny,” it 
said ; “I wouldn’t bet if I was you.” 

Tavinia gave a little scream. Both turned in- 
stantly. The young man who had been watch- 
ing them stood close to them. He wore working- 
clothes — a flannel shirt and 'cheap-faded trousers 
and coat. He had a good, strong, honest face, 
and there was a tenderness in the look he bent on 
the girl that struck Diller as being almost pathetic. 

The glow in Tavinia’s face turned to the scarlet 
of the sunset. 

she said, embarrassedly. “That you, 
Bart? I didn’t know you was back.” 

“ I just got back,” he replied, briefly. “I got 
to go back again in the mornin’. I was just on 
my way up to your house. I guess I’ll go on. 
I’m tired, an’ I’ve seen lots o’ c’noe races.” He 
looked at her wistfully. 

“ Well,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. 
“You go on up, then. Maw an’ paw’s at home, 
an’ I’ll come as soon ’s the race ’s over.” 

“All right,” he said, with a little drop in his 
voice, and walked away. 

“Oh, dear!'' cried Lavinia. “We’re missin’ 
the start, ain’t we?” 

The cano.o were lying side by side, waiting for 
the signal. Every Indian was bent forward. 


152 


THE CUTTIn’-OUT of BART WINN 

holding his paddle suspended above the water in 
both hands. There was what might be termed a 
rigid suppleness in the attitude. The dark out- 
lines of the paddles showed clearly in the water, 
which had turned yellow as brass. Suddenly the 
band ceased playing and the signal rang across 
the sunset. Thirty-three paddles shot into the 
water, working with the swift regularity of piston- 
rods in powerful engines. The crowds cheered 
and yelled. The canoes did not flash or glide 
now, but literally plowed and plunged through 
the water, which boiled and seethed behind them 
in white, bubbled foam that at times completely 
hid the bronze flgures from sight. There was no 
shouting now, but tense, breathless excitement. 
People clung motionless, in dangerous places and 
stared with straining eyes, under bent brows, after 
the leaping canoes. The betting had been high. 
The flerce, rhythmic strokes of the paddles made a 
noise that was like the rapid pumping of a great 
ram. To Diller, who stood, pale, with com- 
pressed lips, it sounded like the frantic heart-beat of 
a nation in passionate riot. Mingled with it was 
a noise that, once heard, cannot be forgotten — a 
weird, guttural chanting on one tone, that yet 
seemed to hold a windy, musical note ; a sound, 
regular, and rhythmic as the paddle-strokes, that 
came from deep in the breasts of the rigidly sway- 
ing Indians and found utterance through locked 
teeth. 


153 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


A mile out a railroad crossed the tide-lands, 
and this was the turning point. The Nooksacks 
made it first, closely followed by the Alaskans, 
and then, amid wild cheering, the three canoes 
headed for the viaduct. Faster and faster worked 
those powerful arms ; the paddles whizzed more 
fiercely through the air ; the water spurted in 
white sheets behind ; the canoes bounded, length 
on length, out of the water ; and louder and faster 
the guttural chant beat time. The Alaskans and 
the Nooksacks were coming in together, carven 
prow to carven prow, and the excitement was ter- 
rific. Nearer and nearer, neither gaining, they 
came. Then, suddenly, there burst a mad yell of 
triumph, and the Alaskan boat arose from the 
water and leaped almost its full length ahead of 
the Nooksack’s ; and amidst waving hats and 
handkerchiefs, and almost frantic cheering — the 
race was won. 

“By the eternal!” said Diller, beginning to 
breathe again and wiping the perspiration from 
his brow. ‘ ‘ If that isn’ t worth crossing the plains 
to see, I don’t know what is 1” But his com- 
panion did not hear. She was alternately wav- 
ing her kerchief to the victors and pounding her 
small fists on the railing in an ecstasy of triumph. 


154 


CUTTIN’-OUT op BART WINN 


“ Lavin-<?<?/” 

“Well?” 

“You come right down hyeer an’ help me 
em’ty this ren chin’ -water. I’d like to know 
what’s got into you ! A-stayin’ up-stairs half your 
time, an’ just a-mopin’ around when you are 
down. You ain’t b’en worth your salt lately !” 

The girl came into the kitchen slowly. ‘ ‘ What 
5’’ou jawin’ about now, maw?” she said, smiling. 

“I’ll show you what I’m a-jawin’ about, as 
you call it. Take holt o’ this tub an’ help me 
em’ty this renchin’ -water.” 

“Well, don’t holler so; Mr. Diller ’ll hear 
you.” 

“I don’t care ’fhe hear me. I can give 
him his come-up’ans if he goes to foolin’ around, 
listenin’. I don’t care ’f he does write for a 
paper in New York ! You’ve got to take holt o’ 
the work more’n you’ve b’en lately. A-traipsin’ 
around all over the country with him, a-showin’ 
him things to write about an’ make fun of! I 
sh’u’d think Bart Winn had just about got 
enough of it.” 

“I wish you’d keep still about Bart Winn,” 
said Lavinia, impatiently. 

“Well, I ain’t a-goin’ to keep still about him.” 
Mrs. Vaiden poured the dish-water into the sink 
and passed the dish-cloth round and round the 
pan, inside and outside with mechanical care, be’ 


155 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OE BART WINN 


fore she opened the back door and hung it out on 
the side of the house. “ I guess I don’t haf to 
z.^you when I want to talk. There you was — 
gone all day yeste’day a-huntin’ star-fish, an’ that 
renchin’ -water a-settin’ there a-ruinin’ that tub 
because I couldn’t em’ty it all myself. Just as 
if he never saw star-fish where he come from. 
An’ then to-day — b’en gone all the mornin’ 
a-ketchin’ crabs ! How many crabs ’d you ketch, 
I’d like to know !” 

“ We didn’t ketch manj'-,” said Tavinia, with 
a soft, aggravating laugh. “The water w^a’n’t 
clear enough to see ’em.” 

“No, I guess the water wa'n't clear enough to 
see ’em !’’ The rinsing- water had been emptied, 
and Mrs. Vaiden was industriously wiping the 
tub. “ I’ve got all the star-fishin’ an’ the crab- 
ketchin’ I want, an’ I’m a-goin’ to tell that young 
man that he can go some’ers else for his board. 
He’s b’en here a month, an’ he’s just about made 
a fool o’ you. Pret’ soon you’ll be a-thinkin’ 
you’re too good for Bart Winn.’’ 

“Oh, no,’’ said Bart Winn’s honest voice in 
the doorway; “ I guess Taviny won’t never be 
a-thinkin’ that.” 

“Mercy!” cried Mrs. Vaiden, starting and 
coloring guiltily. ‘ ‘ That you ? How you scairt 
me 1 I’m all of a-trimble.” 

Bart advanced to Tavinia and kissed her with 

156 


THE CUTTIN*-0UT OF BART WINN 


much tenderness ; but instead of blushing, she 
paled. 

“When ’d you come?” she asked, briefly, 
drawing away, while her mother, muttering some- 
thing about the sour cream and the spring-house, 
went out discreetly. 

“ This mornin’,” said Bart. “I’m a-goin’ to 
stay home now.” 

The girl sat down, taking a pan of potatoes on 
her lap. “I wonder where the case-knife is,” 
she said, helplessly. 

“I’ll get it,” said Bart, , tinning into the pan- 
try and returning with tl e knife. ‘ ‘ I love to 
wait on you, Laviny,” he added, with shining 
eyes. “ I guess I’ll get to wait on you a sight, 
now. I see your paw ’s I come up an’ he said 
as how I could board hyeer. I’ll do the shores 
for you — an’ glad to. An’, oh, Laviny ! I 
’most forgot. I spoke for a buggy ’s I come up, 
so’s I can take you a-ridin’ to-night.” 

“I guess I can’t go,” said Tavinia, holding 
her head down and paring potatoes as if her life 
depended upon getting the skins off. 

“ You can’t ? Why can’t you ?” 

“ I — why, I’m goin’ a salmon-spearin’ up at 
Squalicum Creek, I guess. Salmon’s a-runnin’ 
like everything now. ’Most half the town goes 
there soon ’s it gets dark.” 

“That a fact?” said Bart, shifting from one 

157 


THB CUTTIN’-OUT of BART WiNN 

foot to the Other and looking interested. “I 
want to know ! Well ” — his face brightened — 
“I’ll go down an’ tell ’em I’ll take the rig to 
morro’ night, an’ I’ll go a-spearin’ with you. 
Right down in front o’ Eldridge’s?’’ 

“Yes.” A pulse began thumping violently in 
the girl’s throat. Her eyelids got so heavy she 
could not lift them. ‘ ‘ I guess — that is, I — 
why, you see, Bart, I got comp’ny.’’ 

“Well, I guess the girls won’t object to my 
goin’ along o’ you.’’ 

“It ain’t girls,’’ said Eavinia, desperately. 
“It’s — a — it’s Mr. Diller ; the gentleman that 
boards here.’’ 

“Oh,’’ said Bart, slowly. Then there was a 
most trying silence, during which the ticking of 
the clock and the beating of her own heart were 
the only sounds Eavinia heard. At last she said, 
feebly: “You see he writes for a New York 
newspaper — one o’ the big ones. He’s a-writin’ 
up the whole Puget Sound country. An’ he 
don’t know just what he’d ort to see, nor just 
how to see it, unless somebody shows him about 
— an’ I’ve b’en a-showin’ him.’’ 

“Oh !” said Bart again, but quite in another 
tone, quite cheerfully. “ That’s it, is ’t, Eaviny ? 
Well, that’s all right. But I’ll be hanged if you 
didn’t take my breath away for a minute. I 
thought you meant — Eaviny!’’ — a sudden seri- 
158 


cuttin‘-out op bart winn 

ousness came into his tone and look — “I guess 
you don’t know how much I think o’ you. My 
heart’s just set on you, my girl — my whole life’s 
wrapped up in you.” He paused, but havinia 
did not speak or look at him, and he added, very 
slowly and thoughtfully — “ I reckon it ’u’d just 
about kill me, ’f anything happened to you.” 

“I guess nothin’ ’s a-goin’ to happen.” She 
dropped one potato into a pan of cold water and 
took up another. 

‘ ‘ No, I guess not. ’ ’ He took on a lighter tone. 
“But I’ll tell you what, I,aviny ! If that’s all, 
he ain’t comp’ny at all ; so you can just tell him 
I ’ m a-goin’ , too. ’ ’ He came closer and laid a large 
but very gentle hand on her shoulder. “You 
might even tell him I’ve got a right to go, I^a- 
viny.” 

The girl shrank, and glanced nervously at the 
door. 

“I wouldn’t like to do that, Bart. After his 
arrangin’ to go, an’ a-hirin’ the skiff hisself. / 
don’t know but what he’s got somebody else to go 
along of us.” 

‘ ‘ Why, does he ever ? ” 

“ Well, I don’t recollect that he ever has ; but 
then he might of, this time, I say, for all I 
know.” 

There was another silence. Then the big hand 
patted the girl’s shoulder affectionately and the 

159 


THE CUTTIn’-OUT OP BART WINN 


honest eyes bent on her the look of patient tender- 
ness that Diller had considered pathetic. 

“All right, I<aviny ; you go along of him, just 
by yourself, an’ I’ll stop home with your paw an’ 
your maw. I want you to know, my girl, that I 
trust you, an’ believe every word you say to me. 
I ain’t even thought o’ much else besides you 
ever sence I saw you first time at the liberry so- 
ciable, an’ I won’t ever think o’ much else, I 
don’t care what happens. Bein’ afraid to trust a 
body ’s a poor way to show how much you think 
about ’em, is my religion ; so you go an’ have a 
good time, an’ don’t you worry about me.’’ He 
tucked one of her runaway curls behind her ear 
awkwardly. “I’ll slip down to the liv’ry stable 
now, an’ tell ’em about the rig.” 

“All right,” said Lavinia. 

Her mother came in one door, after a precau- 
tionary scraping of her feet and an alarming 
paroxysm of coughing, and looked rather disap- 
pointed to see Bart going out at the other, and to 
realize that her modest warnings had been thrown 
away. ‘ ‘ Well, ’f I ever ! ’ ’ she exclaimed. “ La- 
viny Vaiden, whatever makes you look so? You 
look just ’s if you’d seen a spook ! You’re a 
kind ’o yellow-gray — just like you had the 
ja’ndice ! What af/y you ? ” 

“ I got a headache,” said the girl ; and then, 
somehow, the pan slid down off her lap, and the 
i6o 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT of BART WINN 


potatoes and the parings went rolling and sprawl- 
ing all over the floor ; lyavinia’s head went down 
suddenly on the table, and she was sobbing bit- 
terly. 

Her mother looked at her keenly, without speak- 
ing, for a moment ; then she said dryly, “ Why, 
I guess you must have an awful headache. Come 
on kind o’ sudden like, didn’t it ? I guess you’d 
best go up and lay down, an’ I’ll bring a mustard 
plaster up an’ put on your head. Ain’t nothin’ 
like a plaster for a headache — ’specially that kind 
of a headache.” 

Bart Winn walked into the livery stable with an 
air of indifference put on so stiffly that it deceived 
no one. It was not that he did not feel perfectly 
satisfied with Lavinia’s explanation, but he was 
a trifle uneasy lest others should not see the thing 
with his eyes. 

“ I guess I won’t want that rig to-night, Billy,” 
he said, pulling a head of timothy out of a bale 
of hay that stood near. “I’ll take it to-morro’ 
night.” 

“All right,” said the young fellow, with a smile 
that Bart did not like. “ Girl sick, aigh ?” 

“No,” said Bart, softly stripping the fuzz off 
the timothy. 

“Well, I guess I understan’,” said Billy, wink- 
ing one eye, cheerfully. “I’ve b’en there my- 
self. Girls is as much alike ’s peas — sweet-^z2j& ’ ’ 

i6i 


THS CUTTIN’-OUT of BART WINN 


— interjected with a hearty laugh — “in a pod, 
the world over. It ain’t never safe for a fellow to 
come home, after bein’ away a good spell, an’ en- 
gage a buggy before findin’ out if the girl ain’t 
engaged to some other fello’ — it ain’t noways safe. 
I smiled in my sleeve when you walked in so big 
an’ ordered your’n.” 

Bart Winn was slow to anger, but now a dull 
red came upon his face and neck, and settled there 
as if burnt into the flesh. His eyes looked dan- 
gerous, but he spoke quietly. ‘ ‘ I guess you don’ t 
know what you’re talkin’ about, Billy. I guess 
you hadn’t best go any furder.” 

Billy came slowly toward him, nettled by his 
tone — by its very calm, in fact. “ D’ you mean 
to say that Laviny Vaiden ain’t goin’ a-salmon- 
spearin’ to-night with that dandy from New 
York?’’ 

Bart swallowed once or twice. 

“ I don’t mean to say anything that’s none o’ 
your business,’’ he said. 

“Well, she’s been a-spearin’ with him ev’ry 
night sence the salmon’s b’en a-runnin’ , anyway. ’ ’ 

The strong, powerful trembling of a man w'ho 
is trying to control himself now siezed Bart 
Winn. 

“If you’re goin’ to put on airs with me,’’ con- 
tinued Billy, obtusely, “I’ll just tell you a few 
fax ! They don’t burn any torch in their boat, an* 

162 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


ttey don’t spear any salmon ! That’s just a blind. 
They go oflF by theirselves — clear away from the 
spearers, an’ they don’t come back till they see 
the torches a-goin’ out an’ know that we all’s 
a-goin’ home. It’s the town talk. Not that they 
say anything wrong, for we’ve all knowedTaviny 
sence she was a baby ; but it’s as plain as the nose 
on a man’s face that you ain’t in it there since that 
dood come.” 

A panorama of colors flamed over Bart’s face ; 
his hands clenched till the nails cut into the flesh 
and the blood spurted ; who has seen the look in 
the eyes of the lion that cowers and obeys under 
the terrible lash of the trainer will know the look 
that was in the man’s eyes while the lash of his 
own will conquered him ; his broad chest swelled 
and sunk. At last he spoke, in a deep, shaking 
voice. ‘ ‘ Billy, ’ ’ he said, ‘ ‘ you’re a liar — a liar ! 
Damn you P ’ He struggled a moment longer 
with himself, and then turned and hurried away 
as if possessed of the devil. 

But Billy followed him to the door and called 
after him — “ Oh, damn me, aigh ? Now, I don’t 
want I sh’u’d have a fight with you, Bart. I was 
tryin’ to do you a favor. If you think I’m a 
liar, it’s a mighty easy thing for you to go down 
there to-night an’ see for yourself. That’s all / 
ask.” 

Bart went on in a passion of contending emo- 
163 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


tions. “He’s a liar! He’s a liar!” he kept 
saying, deep in his throat ; but all the time he 
had the odd feeling that somebody, or something, 
was contradicting him. A warm wind had arisen, 
and it beat against his temples so persistently 
that they felt numb by the time he reached the 
Vaiden’s. He cleaned his boots on the neat mat 
of gunny-sacking laid at the door for that pur- 
pose, and entered the kitchen. “Where’s ka- 
viny?” he asked. 

“She’s up-stairs with a headache,” replied 
Mrs. Vaiden, promptly. 

“ It must ’a’ come on .sudden.” 

“Yes, I guess it must.” Mrs. Vaiden spoke 
cautiously. She was sure there had been a quar- 
rel, and she was afraid her own remark, overheard 
by Bart, had brought it on. 

“ Well, I want to see her.” 

“ Right away?” 

“Yes,” said Bart, after a little hesitation, 
“ right away, I reckon.” 

Mrs. Vaident went up-stairs, and returned pres- 
ently, followed by Lavinia. The girl looked pale ; 
a white kerchief bound about her brow increased 
her pallor ; her eyes were red. She sat down 
weakly in a splint-bottom chair and crossed her 
hands in her lap. 

At sight of the girl’s suffering, Bart knew in- 
stantly that he had been doubting her without 

164 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


realizing it, because his faith in her came back 
with such a strong rush of tenderness. 

“Sick, Ivaviny?” he asked, in a tone that was 
a caress of itself — it was so very gentle a thing 
to come from so powerful a man. 

“I got a headache,” said I^avinia, looking at 
the floor. ‘ ‘ It came on right after you left. It 
aches awful.” 

Bart went to her and laid his hand on her 
shoulder. It was a strong hand to be shaking 
so. 

“ Laviny, I’m a brute to get you up out o’ bed ; 
but I’m more of a brute to ’a’ believed” — He 
stopped, and she lifted her eyes, fearfully, to his 
face. “I’ve been listenin’ to things about you.” 

“What things?” She looked at the floor 
again. 

“ Well, I ain’t goin’ to so much as ask yon ’f 
it’s so ; but I’m goin’ to tell you how mean I’ve 
b’en to listen to ’t an’ to keep a- wonderin’ if it 
c’u’d be so, — an’ then see if you can forgive me. 
I’ve b’en bearin’ that you don’t light no torch 
nor ketch no salmon when you go a-spearin’, but 
that you an’ him go off by yourselves an’ stay — 
an’ that he — he” — the words seemed to stick in 
his throat — “he’s cut me out.” 

After a little Lavinia said — “Is that all?” 

“All ! Yes. Ain’t that enough?” 

“ Yes, it’s enough — plenty for you to ’a’ be- 


THS CUTTIN’-OUT of BART WINN 


lieved about me. I wouldn’t ’a’ believed that 
much about you.” The humor of this remark 
seemed to appeal to her, for she smiled a little. 
Then she got up. “But it’s all right, Bart. I 
ain’t mad. If that’s all, I guess I’ll go back to 
bed. You tell maw I couldn’t put them roastin’- 
ears on — my head feels so.” 

He caught her to his breast and kissed her 
several times, with something like a prayer in his 
eyes, and with a strong, but sternly controlled 
passion that left him trembling and staggering 
like a drunken man when she was gone. ’ 


After Tavinia and Diller were gone that night 
Bart sat out on the kitchen steps, smoking his 
pipe. He stooped forward, his elbows resting on 
his knees. His right hand held the pipe, and the 
left supported his right arm. His eyes looked 
straight before him into the purple twilight. The 
wind had gone down, but now and then a little 
gust of perfume came around the corner from the 
wild clover, still in delicate pink blossom on the 
north side of the house. The stars came out, one 
by one, in the deep blue spaces above, and shrill 
mournful outcries came from winged things in the 
green depths of the ferns. Already the torches 
of the sahnon-spearers were beginning to flare out 
from the shadow of the cliffs across the bay. Mr. 

i66 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


Vaiden was not at home, but Mrs. Vaiden was 
walking about heavily in the kitchen, finishing 
the evening work. 

Mrs. Vaiden was not quite easy in her mind. She 
really liked Bart Winn, but, to be unnecessarily 
and disagreeably truthful, she liked even better his 
noble donation claim, which he was now selling 
off in town lots. Time and time again during 
the past month she had cautioned Tavinia to not 
“ go galivantin’ ’round with that Dillersomuch'J ” 
and on numerous occasions she had affirmed that 
“ she’d bet Taviny would fool along till she let 
Bart Winn slip through her fingers, after all.” 
Still, it had been an unconfessed satisfaction to 
her to observe Mr. Diller’s frank admiration for 
her daughter — to feel that Tavinia could “have 
her pick o’ the best any day.” She knew how 
this rankled in some of the neighbors’ breasts. 
She wished now that she had been more strict. 
She said to herself, as she went out to the spring- 
house : “I wish I’ d ’ a’ set my foot right down on 
his goin’ a step with her. An’ there I started it 
myself, a-sendin’ her off to that c’noe race with 
him, just to tantalize Mis’ Bentley an’ her troop 
o’ girls. But land knows I never dreamt o’ its 
goin’ on this way. What’s a newspaper fello’ 
compared to a donation claim, Fd like to know ? ” 
At nine o’clock she went to the door and said, 
in that tone of conciliatory tenderness which 
167 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT of BART WINN 


comes from a remorseful conscience: “Well, 
Bart, I guess I’ll go to bed. I’m tired. You 
goin’ to set up for Laviny ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Bart ; “good-night” 

“Well, good-night, Bart.” She stood holding 
a lighted candle in one hand, protecting its flame 
from the night air with the other. “I reckon 
they’ll be home by ten.” 

“ I reckon so.” 

At the top of the stairs Mrs. Vaiden remem- 
bered that the parlor windows were open, and 
she went back to close them. The wind was ris- 
ing again, and as she opened the parlor door it 
puffed through the open windows and sent the 
curtains streaming out into the room ; then it 
went whistling on through the house, banging 
the doors. 

After a while quiet came upon the house. 
Bart sat smoking silently. The Vaidens lived on 
a hill above the town, and usually he liked 
to watch the chains of electric lights curving 
around the bay ; but to-night he watched the 
torches only. Suddenly he flung his pipe down 
with a passionate movement and stood up, reach- 
ing inside the door for his hat. But he sat down 
again as suddenly, shaking himself like a dog, as 
if to fling off something that was upon him. “ No ; 
I’m damned if I will!” he said in his throat. 
“I won't watch her ! She said it wa’n’t so, an' I 

i68 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


believe her.” But he did not smoke again, and he 
breathed more heavily as the moments ticked by 
and she did not come. At half-past ten Mrs. 
Vaiden came down in a calico wrapper and a 
worsted shawl. 

“Why, ain’t she come yetV she asked, hold- 
ing the candle high and peering under it at the 
back of the silent figure outside. 

“No,” said Bart quietly ; “she ain’t.” 

“Why, it’s half-after ten! She never ’s b’en 
out this a-way before. D’you think anything 
c’u’d ’a’ hapened?” 

“No,” said Bart, slowly ; “I guess they’ll be 
along.” 

“Well, I don’t want that she sh’u’d stay out 
till this time o’ night with anybody but you. 
She’s old enough to know better. It don’t look 
well.” 

“ It looks all right, as fur as that goes,” said 
Bart. 

“ Oh, if you think so.” 

Mrs. Vaiden lowered the candle huflSly. 

Bart arose and came inside. He was pale but 
he spoke calmly, and he looked her straight in the 
eyes. 

“It’s all right as fur as she goes ; I’d trust her 
anywheres. But how about him ? What kind 
of a man is he ?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Vaiden, weakly. 

169 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 

“ How d’ you expect me to know what kind of a 
man he is ? He’s a nice-appearin’, polite sort of a 
fello’, an’ he writes for a newspaper ’n New York 
— one o’ them big ones. But he don’t seem to 
me to have much backbone or stand-upness about 
him. I sh’u’d think he’s one o’ them that never 
intends to do anything wrong, but does it just be- 
cause its pleasant for the time bein’, and then 
feels sorry for ’t afte’ards.” 

Bart’s brows bent together blackly. 

“But I must say ’’ — Mrs. Vaiden’s tone gath- 
ered firmness — “ you might pattern after him a 
little in politeness, Bart. I think Laviny likes it. 
He’s alwus openin’ gates for her, an’ runnin’ to 
set chairs for her when she comes into a room, 
an’ takin’ off his hat to her, an’ carryin’ her um- 
berella, an’ fetchin’ her flow’rs ; an’ I b’lieve he’d 
most die before he’d walk on the inside o’ the 
sidewalk or go over a crossin’ ahead o’ her. An’ 
I can see Laviny likes them things.’’ 

She put the candle on the table and huddled 
down into a chair. 

The look of anger on the man’s face gave 
place to one of keen dismay. 

“ I didn’t know she liked such things. I never 
thought about ’em. I wa’n’t brought up to such 
foolishness.’’ 

“Well, she likes ’em, anyhow. I guess most 
women do.” Mrs. Vaiden sighed unconsciously. 

170 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


“Why, Bart, it’s a quarter of, an’ she ain’t here 
yet. D’ you want I sh’u’d go after her?” 

“No, I don’t want you sh’u’d go after her. I 
want you sh’u’d let her alone, an’ show her we 
got confidence in her. She’s just the same as my 
wife, an’ I don’t want her own mother sh’u’d 
think she’d do anything she hadn’t ort to.” 

Mrs. Vaiden’s feelings were sensitive and easily 
hurt ; and she sat now in icy silence, looking at 
the clock. But when it struck eleven she thawed, 
being now thoroughly frightened.” 

“Oh, Bart, I do think we’d best look in her 
room. She might ’a’ got in someway without 
our bearin’ her — an’ us settin’ hyeer like a 
couple o’ bumps on a lawg.” 

“She might ’a’,” said Bart, as if struck by the 
suggestion. “You get me a candle an’ I’ll go 
up and see. You stay here,” he added, over his 
shoulder, as he took the candle and started. 

“I^ook out!” she cried, sharply, as the blue 
flame plowed a gutter down one side of the candle. 
“Don’t hold it so crooked! You’ll spill the 
sperm onto the stair-carpet !” 

It was with a feeling of awe that Bart went 
into the dainty little room. There were rosebuds 
on the creamy wall-paper, and the ceiling, slant- 
ing down on one side, was pale, pale blue, 
spangled with silver stars ; the windows were 
closed, and thin, soft curtains fell in straight folds 
171 


*riiE cu'ptin’-out of bart winn 


over them; the rag carpet was woven in pink- 
aud-cream stripes ; there was a dressing-table 
prettily draped in pink. For a moment the man’s 
love was stronger than his anxiety ; the prayer 
came back to his eyes as he looked at the narrow, 
snowy bed. 

Then he went to the dressing-table and saw a 
folded slip of paper with his name upon it. 


After a while he became conscious that he had 
read the letter a dozen times, and still had not 
grasped its meaning. He stooped closer to the 
candle and read it again, his lips moving mechan- 
ically: 

“Dear Bart: — I’m goin’ away. I’m goin’ with 
him. I told you what wa’n’t so this momin’. I do like 
him the best. I couldn’t have you after knowin’ him. 
I feel awful bad to treat you this a-way, but I haf to. 

Daviny.” 

“ P. S. — I want that you sh’u’d marry somebody else 
as soon as you can, an’ be happy.” 


A querulous call came from the hall below. 
He took the candle in one hand and the letter in 
the other and went down, stumbling clumsily on 
the stairs. A great many noises seemed to be 
ringing in his head, and the sober paper with 
which the walls of the hall were covered to have 


172 


The cuttin*-out oe bart winn 

suddenly taken on great scarlet spots. He felt 
helpless and uncertain in his movements, as if he 
had no will to guide him. He must have carried 
the candle very crookedly, for Mrs. Vaiden, who 
was watching him from below, cried out, petu- 
lantly : “There, you are spillin’ the sperm! 
Just look at you I” But she stopped abruptly 
when she saw his face. 

“ Why, whatever on this earth I” she exclaimed, 
solemnly. “What you got there? A letter?” 

“Yes.” He set the candle on the table and 
held the letter toward her. “ It’s from Taviny.” 

‘ ‘ From Taviny I Why, what on earth did she 
write to you about ?” 

He burst into wild, terrible laughter. ‘ ‘ She 
wants I sh’u’d marry somebody else as soon as I 
can, an’ be happy.” These words, at least, 
seemed to have written themselves on his brain. 
He groped about blindly for his hat, and went 
out into the shrill, whistling night. The last 
torch had burnt itself out, and everything was 
black save the electric lights, winking in the 
wind, and one strip of whitening sky above Mount 
Baker, where presently the moon would rise, sil- 
ver and cool. 


It was seven o’clock in the morning when he 
came back. He washed his hands and face at the 


J73 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


sink on the porch, and combed his hair before a 
tiny mirror, in which a dozen reflections of him- 
self danced. Mrs. Vaiden was frying ham. At 
sight of him she began to cry, weakly and noise- 
lessly. ‘ ‘ Where you been ?’ ’ she sniffled. “You 
look forty year old. I set up till one o’clock, 
a- waitin’ for you. ’ ’ 

“Mrs. Vaiden,’’ said Bart, quietly, “I’m in 
great trouble. I’ve walked all night, try in’ to 
make up my mind to ’t. I’ve done it at last ; 
but I cu’dn’t ’a’ come back tell I did. I’m sorry 
you waited up.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind that as long as you’re get- 
tin’ reconciled to ’t, Bart.” Mrs. Vaiden spoke 
more hopefully. “ You set right down an’ have 
a bite to eat.” 

“I don’t want anything,” he replied; but he 
sat down and took a cup of coffee. It must have 
been very hot, for suddenly great tears came into 
his eyes and stood there. Mrs. Vaiden sat down 
opposite to him and leaned her elbow on the table 
and her head on her hand. “Bart,” she said, 
solemnly, “ I don’t want you sh’u’d think I ever 
winked at this. It never entered my head. My 
heart’s just broke. To see a likely girl, that c’u’d 
’a’ had her pick anywheres, up an’ run away with 
a no-account newspaper fello’ — when she c’u’d 
’a’ had you!” The man’s face contracted. 
“ Whatever on earth the neighbors ’ll say I don’t 
know.” 174 


THU CUTTIN’-OIT of BART WINN 


“ Who cares what neighbors say ?” 

“ Oh, that’s all very well for you to say ; you 
ain’t her mother.” 

“No,” said Bart, with a look that made her 
quail ; ‘‘I ain’t. I wish to God I was ! Mebbe 
’t wouldn’t hurt so !” 

” Well, it ’ad ort to hurt more !” retorted the 
lady, with spirit. “Just ’s if you felt any worse 
’n I do !” He laid his head on his hand and 
groaned. “ Oh, I know it’s gone deep, Bart ” — 
her tone softened — “but ’s I say, you ain’t her 
mother. You’ll get over it an’ marry again — 
like Baviny wanted that you sh’u’d. It was good 
o’ her to think o’ that. I will say that much for 
her.” 

“Yes,” said Bart; “it was good of her.” 
Then there came a little silence, broken finally 
by Mrs. Vaiden. Her voice held a note of pee- 
vish regret. “There’s that fine house o’ your’n 
’most finished — two story an’ a ell ! An’ that 
liberry across the front hall from the parlor ! 
When I think how vain Laviny was o’ that li- 
berry ! What’ll you do with the house, now, 
Bart?” 

“Sell it ! ” he answered, between his teeth. 

“An’ there’s all that fine furnitur’ that Taviny 
an’ you picked out. She fairly danced when she 
told me about it. All covered with satin — robin- 
egg green, wa’n’t it?” 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT op BART WINN 

‘ ‘ Blue. ’ ’ The word dropped mechanically from 
his white lips. 

“ Well, blue, then. What’ll you do with it ? ” 

“ I guess they’ll take it back by my losin’ my 
first payment,” he answered, with a kind of 
ghastly humor. 

“Well, there’s your new buggy — all paid for. 
They won’t take that back.” 

“I’ll give that to you,” he said, with a bitter 
smile. 

“ Oh, you ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Vaiden, throwing 
out her large hand at him in a gesture of mingled 
embarrassment and delight. “As if I’d take it, 
after Laviny’s actin’ up this a-way ! ” 

He did not reply, and presently she broke out, 
angrily, with : 

“The huzzy ! The ungrateful, deceitful jade ! 
To treat a body so. How do we know whether 
he’s got anything to keep a wife on ? I’ll admit, 
though, he was alwus genteel-dressed. I do 
think, Bart, you might ’a’ took pattern ’n that. 
’T wa’n’t like as if you wa’n’t able to wear good 
do’es — an’ Laviny liked such things.” 

“I wish you’d ’a’ told me a good spell ago 
what she liked, Mrs. Vaiden.” 

“Well, that’s so. There ain’t much use ’n 
loddn’ the stable door after the horse ’s gone. 
Oh, that makes me think about your offerin’ me 
that buggy— ’s if I w’u’d !” 

176 


THB CUTTIN’-OUT of BART WINN 


“ I guess you’ll have to. I’m goin’ to leave on 
the train, an’ I’ll order it sent to you.” 

“ Oh, you ! Why, where you goin’, Bart? ” 

“I’m goin’ to follow him!'' he thundered, 
bringing his fist down on the table in a way that 
made every dish leap out of its place. “I ain’t 
goin’ to hurt him — unless talk hurts — but I’m 
goin’ to say some things to him. I ain’t had a 
thought for three year that that girl ain’t b’en in ! 
I ain’t made a plan that she ain’t b’en in. I’ve 
laid awake night after night just too happy to 
sleep. An’ now to have a — a thing like him take 
her from me in one month. But that ain’t the 
worst ! ” he burst out, passionately. “ We don’t 
know how he’ll treat her, an’ she’ll be too proud 
to complain — ” 

“ I can’t see why you care how he treats her,” 
said Mrs. Vaiden, “after the way she’s treated 
you.” 

‘ ‘ No, ” he answered, with a look that ought to 
have crushed her, “ I didn’t s’ pose you c’u’d see. 
I didn’t expect you to see that, or anything else 
but your own feelin’s — the way the thing aflfex 
you. But that’s what I’m goin’ to follow him 
for, Mrs. Vaiden. An’ when I find him — I’m 
goin’ to tell him” — there was an awful calm in 
his tone now — “that if he ever misuses her, now 
that he’s married her, I’ll kill him. I’ll shoot 
him down like a dawg !” 


177 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN 


“My Lord!” broke in Mrs. Vaiden, with a 
new thought. “What if he ain’t married her I 
She never said so ’n her letter. Oh, Bart !” be- 
ginning to weep hysterically . ‘ ‘ Mebbe you c’ u’ d 

get her back.” 

He leaped to his feet panting like an animal ; 
his great breast swelled in and out swiftly, his 
hands clenched, his eyes burned at her. 

“What!” he said. “Do you daref Her 
mother ! Oh, you — you — God ! but I wish you 
was a man !” 

The whistle of a coming train broke across the 
morning stillness. He turned, seized his hat and 
crushed it on his head. Then he came back and 
took up the chair in which he had been sitting. 

“Mrs. Vaiden,” he said, quietly, “d’ you see 
this chair? Well, if he ain’t married her — ” 

With two or three movements of his powerful 
wrists he wrenched the chair into as many pieces 
and dropped them on the floor. 


After a while Mrs. Vaiden emerged from the 
stupefaction into which his last words had thrown 
her, and resumed her breakfast. 

“Well,” she said, stirring her cofiee until it 
swam round and round in a smooth eddy in the cup, 
“ if I ever see his beat ! Whoever ’d ’a’ thought 
he’d take his cuttin’-out that a- way ? I never ’d 
178 


THE CUTTIN’-OUT OE BART WINN 


’a’ thought it. Worryin’ about her, after the way 
she’s up and used him ! A body ’d think he’d 
be glad if she was treated shameful, and hatto 
lead a mis’rable life a-realizin’ what she’d threw 
away. But not him. Well, they say still water 
runs deep. Mebbe it’s ungrateful to think it after 
his givin’ me that fine buggy — (How Mis’ Bent- 
ley will stare when I drive roun’ to see her !” she 
inteijected with a smile of anticipation.) “But 
after seein’ how he showed up his temper just 
now I ain’t sure but Laviny’s head was level 
when she took the other ’n. ’F only he had a 
donation claim 1” 


179 








0 





\ 


ZARKlrDA 



ZARELDA 


‘ ‘ ’ Reldy ! Say , ’ Reldy ! Za-r^/-dy ! ’ ’ 

The girl was walking rapidly, but she stopped 
at once and turned. She wore a cheap woolen 
dress of a dingy brown color. The sleeves were 
soiled at the wrists, but the narrow, inexpensive 
ruffle at the neck was white and fresh. Her thick 
brown hair was well brushed and clean. It was 
woven into a heavy, glistening braid which was 
looped up and tied with a rose-colored ribbon. 
Her shoes were worn out of shape and “run 
down ” at the heels, and there were no gloves on 
the roughened hands clasped over the handle of 
her dinner-bucket. 

“Oh, you?” she said, smiling. 

“Yes, me,” said the other girl, with a high 
color, as she joined Zarelda. They walked along 
briskly together. “I’ve been try in’ to ketch up 
with you for three blocks. Ain’t you early? ” 
“No; late. Heard the whistle blow ’fore I 
left home. Didn’t you hear it? Now own up, 
Em Brackett.” 

“No, I didn’t — honest,” said the other girl, 
laughing. “I set the clock back las’ night an’ 
forgot to turn it ahead ag’in this mornin’.” 

This young woman’s dress and manner differed 
183 


ZARELDA 


from her companion’s. Her dress was cheap, but 
of flimsy, figured goods that under close inspec- 
tion revealed many and large grease spots ; the 
sleeves were fashionably puffed; and there were 
ruffles and frills and plaitings all over it. At 
the throat was a bit of satin ruffling that had 
once been pale blue. Half her hair had been cut 
off, making what she called her “bangs,” and 
this was tightly frizzed over her head as far back 
as her ears. Her back hair — coarse and broken 
from many crimpings — was braided and looped 
up like Zarelda’s, and tied with a soiled blue rib- 
bon. She wore much cheap jewelry, especially 
amethysts in gaudy settings. She carried herself 
with an air and was popularly supposed by the 
young people of factory society to be very much 
of a belle and a coquette. 

Zarelda turned and looked at her with sudden 
interest. 

‘ ‘ What in the name o’ mercy did you turn the 
clock back for?” 

Em tossed her head, laughing and blushing. 

“Never you mind what for, ’Reldy Winser. 
It ain’t any ’o your funeral, I guess, if I did turn 
it back. I had occasion to — that’s all. You 
wasn’t at the dance up at Canemah las’ night, 
was you ? ’ ’ she added suddenly. 

“ No, I wasn’t. I didn’t have anybody to go 
with. You didn’t go, either, did you?” 

184 


ZARKLDA 


“Unh-hunh; I did.” 

Em nodded her head, looking up the river to 
the great Falls, with dreamy, remembering eyes. 

‘ ‘ We had a splendid time, an’ the walk home 
along the river was just fine.” 

” Well, I could of gone with you if I’d of knew 
you was goin’. Couldn’t I ? Maw was reel well 
las’ night, too.” 

She waited for a reply, but receiving none, re- 
peated rather wistfully — “ Couldn’t I ? ” 

Em took her eyes with some reluctance away 
from the river and looked straight before her. 

“Why, I guess,” she said, slowly and with 
slight condescension. ‘‘At least, I wouldn’t of 
cared if my comp’ ny wouldn’t; an I guess” — 
with a beautiful burst of generosity — ‘ ‘ he wouldn’t 
of minded much.” 

‘‘Oh,” said Zarelda, ‘‘you had comp’ny, did 
you?” 

“ W’y, of course. You didn’t s’pose I went up 
there all alone of myself, did you ? ’ ’ 

“You an’ me ust to go alone places, without 
any fellow, I mean,” said Zarelda. A little color 
came slowly into her face. She felt vaguely hurt 
by the other’s tone. “ I thought mebbe you went 
with some o’ the other girls.” 

“ I don’t go around that way any more.” Em 
lifted her chin an inch higher. “ When I can’t 
have an — escort” — she uttered the word with 


ZARELDA 


some hesitation, fearing Zarelda might laugh at 
it — “ I’ll stay home.” 

Then she added abruptly in a reminiscent 
tone — ” Maw acted up awful over my goin’ with 
him. Thought for a spell I wouldn’t get to go. 
But at last I flared all up an’ told her if I couldn’t 
go I’d just up an’ leave for good. That brought 
her around to the whipple-trees double quick, I 
can tell you. I guess she won’t say much agen 
my goin’ with him another time.” 

‘ ‘ Goin’ with who ? ” said Zarelda. Em looked 
at her, smiling. 

‘ ‘ For the land o’ love! D’ you mean to say 
you don’t know? I thought you’d of guessed. 
W’y, that’s what made maw so mad — she was 
just hoppin’, I tell you. That’s what made her 
act up so. Said all the neighbors ’u’d say I was 
try in’ to get him away from you.” 

In an instant the blood had flamed all over Za- 
relda’ s face and neck. 

” Get who away from me, Em Brackett ? ” 

‘‘As if there was so many to get I” said Em, 
laughing. 

“Who are you a-talkin’ about?” said Zarelda, 
sternly. Her face was paling now. “ What of I 
got to do with you an’ your comp’ny an’ your 
maw’s actin’ -ups, I’d like to know. Who was 
your comp’ny ?’’ 

“Jim Sheppard ; he ” — 

i86 


ZARELDA 


“Jim Sheppard !” cried Zarelda, furiously. She 
turned a white face to her companion, but her 
eyes were blazing. “What do I care for Jim 
S heppard ? Aigh ? What do I care who he takes 
to dances up at Canemah ? Aigh ? You tell your 
maw, Em Brackett, that she needn’t to trouble to 
act up on my account. She can save her actin’ - 
ups for somebody that needs ’em ! You tell her 
that, will you?’’ 

“Well, I will,” said Em, unmoved, “I’m 
glad you don’t mind, ’Reldy. I felt some uneasy 
myself, seein’ ’s how stiddy he’d been goin’ with 
you.” 

“Well, that don’t hender his goin’ with some- 
body else, does it ? I ain’t very likely to keep 
him from pleasin’ hisself, am I?’’ 

“Don’t go to workin’ yourself up so, ’Reldy. 
If you don’t care, there’s no use in flarin’ up so. 
My ! Just look at this em’raldring in at Shindy’s. 
Ain’t that a beaut’ ?’’ 

“I ain’t got time.’’ Zarelda walked on with 
her head up. “ Don’t you see we’re late a’ ready ? 
The machin’ry’s all a-goin’, long ago.” 

The two girls pushed through the swinging gate 
and ran up the half-dozen steps to the entrance 
of the big, brick woolen mills. A young man in 
a flannel shirt and brown overalls was passing 
through the outer hall. He was twirling''a full, 
crimson rose in his hand. 

187 


ZAREI.DA 


As the girls hurried in, he paused and stood 
awkwardly waiting for them, with a red face. 

‘ ‘ Good mornin’ , ” he said, looking first at Em 
and then, somewhat shamefacedly, at Zarelda. 

“Good mornin’, Jim,” said Zarelda, coolly. 
She was still pale, but she smiled as she pressed 
on into the weaving-room. The many-tongued 
roar of the machinery burst through the open 
door to greet her. Km lingered behind a moment ; 
and when she passed Zarelda’ s loom there was a 
crimson rose in her girdle and two more in her 
cheeks. 

Five hours of monotonous work followed. Za- 
relda stood patiently by her loom, unmindful of 
the toilers around her and the deafening noise ; 
she did not lift her eyes from her work. She was 
the youngest weaver in the factory and one of the 
most careful and conscientious. 

The marking-room was in the basement, and in 
its quietest comer was a large stove whereon the 
factory -girls were permitted to warm their lunches. 
When the whistle sounded at noon they ceased 
work instantly, seized their lunch baskets, and 
sped — pushing, laughing, jostling — down the 
stairs to the basement. There was a small, rick- 
ety elevator at the rear of the factory, and some 
of the more reckless ones leaped upon it and let 
themselves down with the rope. 

Zarelda was timid about the elevator ; but that 

i88 


ZAREI.DA 


noon she sprang upon it and giving the rope a 
jerk went spinning down to the ground. As she 
entered the marking-room one of the overseers 
saw her. “What!” he exclaimed. “Did you 
come down that elevator, ’Reldy ? I thought you 
had more sense ’n some o’ the other girls. Why, it 
ain’t safe ! You’re liable to get killed on it.” 

“ I don’t care,” said Zarelda, with a short, con- 
temptuous laugh. “I’d just as soon go over the 
falls in an Indian dug-out.” 

“You must want to shuffle off mighty bad,” 
said the overseer. Then he added kindly, for he 
and all the other overseers liked her — “ What’s 
got into you, ’Reldy ? Anything ail you ?” 

“ No,” said the girl ; “ nothin’ ails me.” But 
his kind tone had brought sudden, stinging tears 
to her eyes. 

She went on silently to the stove and set her 
bucket upon it. It contained thick vegetable 
soup, which, with soda crackers, constituted her 
dinner. She sat down to watch it, stirring it oc- 
casionally with a tin spoon. Twenty other girls 
were crowding around the stove. Bm was among 
them. Zarelda saw the big red rose lolling in 
her girdle. She turned her eyes resolutely away 
from it, only to find them going back again and 
again. 

“Hey I Where ’d you get your rose at, Bm 
Brackett?” cried one of the girls. 


ZAR®I,DA 


“ Jim Sheppard gave it to her," trebled another, 
before Em could reply. ‘ ‘ I see him have it pinned 
onto his flannel shirt before the whistle blew." 

Jim Sheppard ! Oh, my !" 

There was a subdued titter behind Zarelda’s 
back. She stirred the soup without lifting her 
eyes. "She went livid, though, an’ then she 
went white !" one of the girls who read yellow 
novels declared afterward, tragically. 

"Well," said Matt Wilson, sitting down on a 
bench and commencing to eat a great slice of 
bread thinly covered with butter, ‘ ‘ who went to 
the dance up at Stringtown las’ night ?" 

All the girls but two flung unclean hands above 
their heads. There was a merry outcry of " I 
did! I did I" 

" Well, I didn’t," said Matt. " My little lame 
sister coaxed me to wheel her down town, an’ 
then it was too late." 

"Why wasn’t you there, Zarelda Winser?" 
cried Belle Church, opening her dinner bucket 
and examining the contents with the air of an ep- 
icurean. 

For a second or two Zarelda wished honestly 
that she had a lame sister or an invalid mother. 
Then she said, quite calmly — "I didn’t have any 
body to go with. That’s why." She turned and 
faced them all as she spoke. 

With a fine delicacy which was certainly not ac- 


190 


ZARBIvDA 


quired by education, every girl except Matt looked 
away from Zarelda’s face. Matt, not having been 
to the dance, was not in the secret. 

But Zarelda did not change countenance. She 
sat calmly eating her soup from the bucket with 
the tin spoon. She took it noisily from the point 
of the spoon ; it was so thick that it was like eat- 
ing a vegetable dinner. 

“ Didn’t have anybody to go with?” repeated 
Matt, laughing loudly. “I call that good. A 
girl that’s had steady comp’ny for a year ! Com- 
p’ny that’s tagged her closer ’n her shadder ! An’ 
I did hear” — she shattered the shell of a hard- 
boiled egg by hammering it on the bench, and be- 
gan picking off the pieces — ‘ ‘ that your maw was 
makin’ you up a whole trunkful o’ new under- 
clo’s — all trimmed up with tattin’ an’ crochet an’ 
serpentine braid — with insertin’ two inches wide 
on ’em, too. You didn’t have anybody to go 
with, aigh ? What’s the matter with Jim Shep- 
pard?” 

Zarelda set her eyes on the red rose, as if that 
gave her courage. 

“ He took Em Brackett.” 

” Not much !” said Matt, turning sharply. 
“ Honest ? Well, then, he only took her because 
you couldn’t go an’ ast him to take her instid.” 

“Why, the idee!” exclaimed Em, coloring 
angrily and fluttering until the rose almost fell 
191 


ZARBI.DA 


out of her girdle. ‘ ‘ Zarelda Winser, you tell her 
that ain’t so !” 

“No, it ain’t so,” said Zarelda, composedly, 
finishing her soup and beginning on a soda 
cracker. “He didn’t ask me at all. He asked 
Em hisself.’’ 

“My !’’ said Net Carter, who had not been giv- 
ing attention to the conversation. ‘ ‘ What larra- 
pin’ good lunches you do have, Em Brackett. 
Chicken sandwich, an’ spiced cur’nts, an’ cake ! 
My!’’ 

Em Brackett looked out of the cobwebbed win- 
dow at a small dwelling between the factory and 
the river. “ I wonder why Mis’ Allen don’t hide 
up that ugly porch o’ her’n with vines,’’ she said, 
frostily. In factory society “larrapin’’ was not 
considered a polite word and a snub invariably 
awaited the unfortunate young woman who used 
it. The line must be drawn. 

When the whistle blew the girls started leisurely 
for the stairs. There would be fifteen minutes 
during which they might stand around the halls 
and talk to the young men. Zarelda fell back, 
permitting all to precede her. Em looked back 
once or twice to see where she was. 

“ Well, if that ’Reldy Winser ain’t grit !’’ whis- 
pered Nell Curry to Min Aster. “Just as good 
as acknowledgin’ he’s threw off on her, an’ her 
a-holdin’ up her head that way. There ain’t an- 


192 


ZAREI.DA 


other girl in the factory c’u’d do that — without 
flinchin’, too.” 

When Zarelda reached the first hall she looked 
about her deliberately for Jim Sheppard. It had 
been his custom to meet her at the head of the stairs 
and going with her to one of the windows over- 
looking the Falls, to talk until the second whistle 
sent them to their looms. With a resolute air she 
joined Em Brackett, who was looking unusually 
pretty with a flush of excitement on her face and 
a defiant sparkle in her eyes. 

In a moment Jim Sheppard came in. He hesi- 
tated when he saw the two girls together. A dull 
red went over his face. Then he crossed the hall 
and deliberately ignoring Zarelda, smiled into 
Em’s boldly inviting eyes and said, distinctly — 
“Em, don’t you want to take a little walk? 
There’s just time.” 

“Why, yes,” said Em, with a flash of poorly 
concealed triumph. “’Reldy, if you’re a-goin’ 
on upstairs, would you just as lieve pack my 
bucket up?” 

” I’d just as lieve.” Zarelda took the bucket, 
and the young couple walked away airily. 

This was the way the factory young men had 
of disclosing their preferences. It was considered 
quite proper for a young man and a young woman 
to “go together” for months, or even years, and 
for one to “throw off” on the other, when at- 


193 


ZARKI^DA 


tracted by a fresher face, with no explanation or 
apology. 

“Well,” whispered Belle Church, “I guess 
there ain’t one of us hut’s been threw off on some 
time or other, so we know how it feels. But this 
is worse. He’s been goin’ with her more’n a year 
— an then to stop off so sudden !” 

“It’s better to stop off sudden than slow,” said 
Matt Wilson, with an air of grim wisdom. “It 
hurts worse, but it don’t hurt so long. Well, if 
lever! Just look at that I ” 

Out of sheer pity Frank Haddon had sidled out 
of a group of young men and made his way hesi- 
tatingly to Zarelda. “ ’Reldy,” he said, “ don’t 
you want to — want to — take a walk, too ? ” 

The girl’s eyes flamed at him. She knew that 
he was pitying her, and she was not of a nature 
to accept pity meekly. “No!” she flashed out, 
with scorn. “ I don’t want to — want to ” — mim- 
icking his tone — “take a walk, too. If I did, I 
guess I know the road.” 

She went upstairs, holding her head high. 

When Zarelda went home that evening she 
found the family already at the supper table. The 
Winsers were not very particular about their home 
manners. 

“We don’ t wait on each other here, ’ ’ Mrs. Win- 
ser explained, frequently, with pride, to her neigh- 
bors. “ When a meal’s done, on the table it goes 
194 


ZARBI.DA 


in a jiffy, an* such of us as is here, eat. I just 
put the things back in the oven an’ keep ’em hot 
for them that ain’t on hand.” 

Zarelda was compelled to pass through the 
kitchen to reach the stairs. 

“Well, ’Reldy,” said her mother, “you’re 
here at last, be you ? Hurry up an’ wash your- 
self. Your supper’s in the oven, but I guess 
the fire’s about out. It does beat all how quick 
it goes out. Paw, I do wish you’d hump yourself 
an’ git some dry wood. It ’u’d try the soul of a 
saint to cook with that green stuff. Sap fairly 
oozes out of it ! ” 

” I don’t want any supper, maw,” said Zarelda. 

“You don’t want any supper ! What ails you ? 
Aigh?” 

“I don’t feel hungry. I got a headache.” 

She passed the table without a glance and went 
upstairs. Her mother arose, pushing back her 
chair with decision and followed her. When she 
reached Zarelda’s room, the girl was on her knees 
before her trunk. She had taken out a small 
writing-desk and was fitting a tiny key in the 
lock. Her hat was still on her head, but pushed 
back. 

She started when the door opened, and looked 
over her shoulder, flushing with embarrassment 
and annoyance. Then, without haste or nervous- 


195 


ZAREI.DA 


ness, she replaced the desk and closing the trunk, 
stood up calmly and faced her mother. 

“Why don’t you want any supper?” Mrs. 
Winser took in the trunk, the desk, and the blush 
at one glance. “ Be you sick ? ” 

“ I got a headache.” Zarelda took off her hat 
and commenced drawing the pins out of her hair. 
She untied the red ribbon and rolled it tightly 
around three fingers to smooth out the creases. 

“Well, you wasn’t puttin’ your headache ’n 
your writin’-desk, was you? ” 

“No, I wasn’t.” 

“Now, see here, ’Reldy,” said Mrs. Winser, 
very kindly, coming closer and resting one large 
hand on the bureau ; “there’s somethin’ ails you 
besides a headache, an’ you ain’t a-goin’ to pull 
any wool over my eyes. You’ve hed lots an’ lots 
o’ headaches an’ et your supper just the same. 
What ails you? ” 

“Nothin’ ails me, maw.” 

“There does, too, somethin’ ail you. I guess 
I know. Now, what is it ? You might just as 
well spit it right out an’ be done with it.” 

Zarelda was silent. She began brushing her 
hair with a dingy brush from which tufts of 
bristles had been worn in several places. Her 
mother watched her patiently for a few moments, 
then she said — “Well, ’Reldy, be you goin’ to 
tell me what ails you ? ” 


196 


ZAREI.DA 


Still there was no reply. 

“ You ain’t turned ofi" in the fact’ry, be you?” 

Zarelda shook her head, 

‘‘Well, then,” said Mrs, Winser slowly, as if 
reluctantly admitting a thought that she had 
been repelling, “it’s somethin’ about Jim Shep- 
pard.” 

The girl paled and brushed her hair over het 
face to screen it from her mother’s searching gaze. 

“ Have you fell out with him ? ” 

“No, I ain’t fell out with him. Hadn’t you 
best eat your supper before it gets cold, maw?” 

“No, I hadn’t best, I ain’t a-goin’ to budge a 
blessed step out o’ this here room tell I know what 
ails you. Not if I have to stay here tell daylight.’ ’ 
After a brief reflection she added — “ Now, don’t 
you tell me he’s been cuttin’ up any ! I always 
said he was a fine young man, an’ I say so still.” 

“ He ain’t been cuttin’ up any,” said Zarelda. 
“At least, not as I know of.” 

She laid down the brush and pushing her hail 
all back with both hands, fronted her mother sud- 
denly, pale but resolute. 

“ If you want to know so bad,” she said, “ I’l! 
tell you. He’s threw off on me.” 

Mrs. Winser sunk helplessly into a chair. 
“ Threw off on you ! ” she gasped. 

“Yes, threw off on me.” Zarelda kept hei 


197 


ZARELDA 


dry, burning eyes on her mother’s face. “ D’ 
you feel any better for makin’ me tell it ? ” 

Certainly her revenge for the persecution was 
all that heart could desire. Her mother sat limp 
and motionless, save for the slow, mechanical 
sliding back and forth of one thumb on the arm 
of her chair. 

After a while Zarelda resumed the hair-brush- 
ing, calmly. Then her mother revived. 

“ Who — who in the name of all that’s merci- 
ful has he took up with now ? ’ ’ she asked, weakly. 

“Em Brackett.” 

“What!” Mrs. Winser almost screamed. 
“That onery hussy! ’Reldy Winser, be you 
a-tellin’ me the truth?” 

“Yes, maw. He took her to the dance up at 
Canemah las’ night, an’ she told me about it this 
mornin !” 

“The deceitful jade. Smiled sweet as honey 
at me when she went by. You’d of thought 
sugar wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I answered 
her ’s short as lard pie-crust — I’m glad of it 
now. Has he took her any place else?” 

“He took her walkin’ at noontime. Stepped 
right up when she was standin’ alongside o’ me 
an’ never looked at me, an’ ast her — right out 
loud so’s all of ’em could hear, too.” 

“Well, he’d ought to be ashamed of hisself I 
After bein’ your stiddy comp’ny for more’n a year 
198 


ZARELDA 


— well onto two years — an’ a-lettin’ all of us 
think he was serious !” 

“ He never said he was, maw.” 

“ He never said he was, aigh ? ’Reldy Winser, 
you ain’t got enough spunk to keep a chicken 
alive, let alone a woman ! ‘ He never said he 

was,’ aigh ? Well, ain’t he been a-comin’ here 
three nights a week nigh onto two year, an’ 
a-takin’ you every place, an’ never a-lookin’ at 
any other girl? An’ didn’t he give you an 
amyfist ring las’ Christmas, an’ a reel garnet pin 
on your birthday? An’ didn’t he come here one 
evenin’, a-laffin’ an’ a-actin’ up foolish in a great 
way an’ holler out — ‘Hello, maw Winser?’ 
Now, don’t you go a-tellin’ me he never meant 
anything serious.” 

“Well, he never said so,” said the girl, stub- 
bornly. 

‘‘I don’t care if he never said so. He acted 
so. Why, for pity’s sake ! You’ve got a grease- 
spot on your dress. I never see you with a 
grease-spot before — you’re so tidy. How’d you 
get it on?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know.” 

“Benzine ’ll take it out. Well — I’m a-goin’ 
to give him a piece o’ my mind !” 

Zarelda lifted her body suddenly. She looked 
tall. Her eyes flamed out their proud Are. 

“ Now, see here, maw,” she said, “you don’t 


199 


ZARELDA 


say a word to him — not a word. This ain’t 
your afiFair ; it’s mine. It’s the fashion in fact’ry 
society for a girl an’ a fellow to go together, an’ 
give each other things, without bein’ real en- 
gaged ; an’ she has to take her chances o’ some 
other girl gettin’ him away from her. If he 
wants to throw olBf on her, all he’s got to do ’s to 
take some other girl to a dance or out walkin’. 
An’ then, if he’s give her a ring or anything, it’s 
etiquette for her to send it back to him, an’ he’ll 
most likely give it to the other girl. I don’t think 
it’s right, an’ I don’t say but what it’s hard — ” 
her voice trembled and broke, but she conquered 
her emotion stubbornly and went on — “ but it’s 
the way in fact’ry society. There ain’t a girl in 
the fact’ry but what’s had to stand it some time 
or other, an’ I guess I can. You don’t want me 
to be a laffin’-stawk, do you ?” 

“ No, I don’t.” Her mother looked at her in 
a kind of admiring despair. “ But I never hear 
tell of such fashions an’ such doin’ s in all my 
born days. It’s shameful. Your paw an’ me 
’d set our minds on your a-marryin’ him an’ get- 
tin’ a home o’ your own. It’s been a burden off 
o’ our minds for a year past — ” 

“Oh, maw !” 

“Just to feel that you’d be fixed so’s you could 
take care o’ your little sisters in case we dropped 
off. An’ there I’ve went an’ made up all them 


200 


ZAREIvDA 


underclo’s !” She leaned her head upon her 
hand and sat looking at the floor with a forlornly 
reminiscent expression. “An’ put tattin’ on 
three sets, an’ crochet lace on three, an’ serpen- 
tine edgin’ on three. An’ inserting on all of ’em ! 
That ain’t the worst of it. Iv’e worked his initial 
hi button-hole stitch on every blessed thing !’’ 

“Oh, maw, you never did that, did you?” 

“Yes, I did. An’ what’s more, I showed 
’em all to old Miss Bradley, too.” 

“You might just as well of showed ’em to the 
whole town !” said poor Zarelda, bitterly. 

“They looked so nice I had to show ’em to 
somebody.” 

“ Sister,” piped a little voice at the foot of the 
stairs, “ Mis’ Riley’s boy ’s come to find out how 
soon you’re a-comin’ over to set up with the sick 
baby.” 

“Oh, I’d clear forgot.” Zarelda braided her 
hair rapidly. “Tell him I’ll be over ’n a few 
minutes.” 

“Now, see here, ’Reldy,” said her mother, 
getting up and laying her hand affectionately on 
the girl’s arm, “you ain’t a-goin’ to budge a 
single step over there to-night. You just get to 
bed an’ put an arnicky plaster on your fore- 
head — ” 

Zarelda laughed in a kind of miserable mirth. 


201 


ZARELDA 


“ Oil, you can laff, but it’ll help lots. I’ll go 
over an’ set up with that baby myself.” 

“No, you won’t, maw.” She slipped the last 
pin in her hair and set her hat firmly on the 
glistening braids. “I said I’d set up with the 
baby, an’ I will. I ain’t goin’ to shirk just be- 
cause I’m in trouble.” 

She went out into the cool autumn twilight. 
Her mother followed her and stood looking after 
her with sympathetic eyes. At last she turned 
and went slowly into the poor and gloomy house ; 
as she closed the door she put all her bitterness 
and disappointment into one heavy sigh. 

The roar of the Falls came loudly to Zarelda 
as she walked along rapidly. The dog-fennel 
was still in blossom, and its greenish snow was 
drifted high on both sides of her path. Still 
higher were billows of everlasting flowers, undu- 
lating in the soft wind. The fallen leaves rustled 
mournfully as she walked through them. Some 
cows were feeding on the commons near by ; she 
heard their deep breathing on the grass before 
they tore and crushed it with their strong teeth ; 
she smelled their warm, fragrant breaths. 

She came to a narrow bridge under the cotton- 
woods where she saw the Willamette, silver and 
beautiful, moving slowly and noiselessly between 
its emerald walls. The slender, yellow sickle of 
the new moon quivered upon its bosom. 


202 


ZAREI<DA 


Zarelda stood still. The noble beauty of the 
night — all its tenderness, all its beating pas- 
sion — shook her to the soul. Her life stretched 
out before her, hard and narrow as the little path 
running through the dog-fennel — a life of toil 
and duty, of clamor and unrest, of hurried break- 
fasts, cold lunches and half-warm suppers, of 
longing for knowledge that would never be 
hers — the hard and bitter treadmill of the factory 
life. 

A sob came up into her dry throat, but it did 
not reach her lips. 

“I won’t!” she said, setting her teeth to- 
gether hard. “I hate people who whine after 
what they can’t have, instead o’ makin’ the best 
o’ what they’ve got.” 

She lifted her head and went on. Her face was 
beautiful ; something sweeter than moonlight 
shone upon it. She walked proudly and the dry 
leaves whirled behind her. 


303 





r \ 


I 






IN THE BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS 



IN THE BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS 


“ Go slow, boys, for God’s sake ! If we miss 
this landing, we are lost. The rapids begin just 
around that bend.” 

Four men stood upon a rude raft, and with 
roughly-made oars and long fir poles were trying 
to guide it out of the current of the swollen Clear- 
water River into a small sheltered inlet. 

Both shores of the river rose abruptly to steep 
and terrible mountains. Not far above was the 
snow-line. 

The men’s faces were white and haggard, their 
eyes anxious, half desperate. Huddled upon a 
stretcher at one end of the raft was a young man, 
little more than a boy, whose pallid, emaciated 
face was turned slightly to one side. His eyes 
were closed ; the long black lashes lay like 
heavy shadows upon his cheeks. The weak 
November sunshine, struggling over the fierce 
mountains, shone through his thin nostrils, 
turning them pink, and giving an unearthly 
look to the face. A collie crouched close be- 
side him, shivering with fear, yet ever and anon 
licking the cold hand lying outside the gray 
blanket; occasionally he lifted his head and 


207 


IN THE BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS 


uttered a long, mournful howl. Each time the 
four men shuddered and exchanged looks of de- 
spair, — so humanly appealing was it, and so 
deeply did it voice the terrible dread in their own 
hearts. 

It was now two months since they had left Se- 
attle on a hunting expedition in the Bitter Root 
Mountains in Idaho. For six weeks they had 
been lost in those awful snow fastnesses. Their 
hunting dogs had been killed by wild beasts. 
Their twelve pack-ponies had been left to starve 
to death when, finding further progress on land 
impossible on account of the snow, they constructed 
a raft and started on their perilous journey down 
the Clearwater. 

The cook had been sick almost the entire time, 
and their progress had been necessarily slow and 
discouraging. They had now reached a point 
where the river was so full of boulders and so 
swift that they could proceed no farther on the 
raft. 

For several days the cook had been unconscious, | 
lying in a speechless stupor ; but when they had, ' 
with much danger and excitement, landed and 
made him comfortable in a protected nook, he 
■suddenly spoke, — faintly but distinctly. 

“Polly,” he said, with deep tenderness, “lay 
lyour hand on my head. I guess it won’t ache so, 
then.” 


208 


IN THE BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS 


The four men, looking at him, grew whiter. 
They could not look at each other. The dog, hav- 
ing already taken his place beside him, lifted his 
head and looked at him with pitiable eagerness. 

“Oh, Polly !” — there was a heart-break in the 
voice, — “you don’t know what I’ve suffered! 
The cold, and then the fever ! The pain has been 
awful. Oh, I’ve wanted you so, Polly — I’ve 
wanted you so I . . , But it’s all right, now 

that I’m home again. . . . Where’s the baby, 

Polly? Oh, the nights that I’ve laid, freezing 
and suffering in the snow, just kept alive by the 
thought o’ you an’ the little man ! I knew it 
’u’d kill you ’f I died — so I w' u' dn' t givt. up I An’ 
now I’m here ’t home again. Polly ’’ 

“ We must fix some supper, boys,’’ said Dar- 
nell, roughly, turning away to hide his emotion. 
“ Let’s get the fire started.’’ 

“We’ve just got enough for one more good 
meal,’’ said Roberts, in a tremulous voice. 
“There’s no game around here, either. Guide, 
you must try to find a way out of this before 
dark, so we can start early in the morning.’’ 

Without speaking, the guide obeyed. It was 
dark when he returned. The men were sit- 
ting by the camp-fire, eating their supper. The 
dog still lay by his master, from whom even hun- 
ger could not tempt him. 

The three men looked at the guide. He sat 


209 


IN THE BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS 


down and took his cup of coffee in silence. 
“ Well,” said Darnell, at last, “can we go on ? ” 

“Yes,” said the guide, slowly; “we can. In 
some places there’ll be. only a few inches’ foot- 
hold ; an’ we’ll hev to hang on to bushes up 
above us, with the river in some places hundreds 
o’ feet below ; but we can do it, ’f we don’t get 
rattled an’ lose our heads.” 

There was a deep and significant silence. Then 
Brotherton said, with white lips, ‘ ‘ Do you mean 
that we can’t take him 

“That’s what I mean.” The guide spoke de- 
liberately. He could not lift his eyes. Some of 
the coffee spilled as he lifted the cup to his lips. 
“We can’t take a thing, ’cept our hands and 
feet, — not even a blanket. It’ll be life an’ death 
to do it, then.” 

There was another silence. At last Darnell said : 
‘ ‘ Then it is for us to decide whether we shall 
leave him to die alone while we save ourselves, 
or stay and die with him ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes,” said the guide. 

“ There is positively not the faintest chance of 
getting him out with us ? ” 

‘ ‘ By God, no ! ” burst forth the guide , pas- 
sionately. “ It seems like puttin’ the responsi- 
bility on me, but you want the truth, an’ that’s 
it. He can’t be got out. It’s leave him an’ save 
ourselves, or stay with him an’ starve.” 


210 


IN THE BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS 


After a long while Roberts said, in a low voice : 
“ He’s unconscious. He wouldn’t know we had 
gone.” 

‘ ‘ He cannot possibly live three days, under 
any circumstances,” said Brotherton. “Mor- 
tification has already begun in his legs.” 

“ Good God !” exclaimed Darnell, jumping up 
and beginning to walk rapidly forth and back, 
before the fire. “I must go home, boys! My 
wife — when I think of her, I am afraid of losing 
my reason I When I think what she is suffer- 
ing ” 

Brotherton looked at him. Then he sunk his 
face into both his hands. He, too, had a wife. The 
guide put down his coffee ; large tears came into 
his honest eyes. He had no wife, but there was 
one 

Roberts got up suddenly. He had the look of 
a tortured animal in his eyes. “ Boys,” he said, 
“my wife is dead. My life doesn’t matter so 
much, but — I’ve three little girls I 1 must got 
back, somehow I ” 

The sick man spoke. They all started guiltily, 
and looked toward him. “Yes, yes, Polly,” he 
said, soothingly, “ I know how you worried about 
me. I know how you set strainin’ your eyes out 
the window day an’ night, watchin’ fer me. But 
now I’m home again, an’ it’s all right. I guess 
you prayed, Polly ; an’ I guess God heard you. 


2II 


m THB BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS 


. . • There’s a boy fer you ! He knows me, 
.00.” 

The silence that fell upon them was long and 
terrible. The guide arose at last, and, without 
speaking, made some broth from the last of the 
canned beef, and forced it between the sick man’s 
lips. When he came back to the fire, Darnell 
took a silver dollar out of his pocket. 

“Boys,” he said, brokenly, “I don’t want to 
be the one to settle this, and I guess none of you 
do. It is an awful thing to decide. I shall throw 
this dollar high into the air. If it falls heads up, 
we go ; tails — we stay.” 

The men had lifted their heads and were watch- 
ing him. They were all very white ; they were all 
trembling. 

‘ ‘Are you willing to decide it in this way ? ’ * 

Each answered, “ Yes. ” 

“ I swear,” said Darnell, slowly and solemnly, 
“ that I will abide by this decision. Do you all 
swear the same? ” 

Each, in turn, took the oath. Trembling now 
perceptibly, Darnell lifted his hand slowly and 
cast the piece of silver into the air. Their eyes 
followed its shining course. For a second it dis- 
appeared ; then it came singing to the earth. 

Dike drunken men they staggered to the spot 
where it had fallen, and fell upon their knees, 
staring with straining eyes and bloodless lips. 


212 


IN THE BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS 


“It is heads,” said Darnell. He wiped the 
cold perspiration from his brow. 

At that moment the dog lifted his head and 
sent a long, mournful howl to die in faint echoes 
in the mountains across the river. 

At daylight they were ready to start. Snow 
lay on the ground to a depth of six inches. But 
a terrible surprise awaited them. At the last mo- 
ment they discovered that the cook was conscious. 

“You’re not going — to leave me?” he said, 
in a whisper. His eyes seemed to be leaping out 
of their hollow sockets with terror. 

“ Only for a few hours,” said Brotherton, husk- 
ily. “ Only to find a way out of this, — to make 
a path over which we can carry you.” 

“Oh,” he said, faintly; “I thought but 

you wouldn’t. In the name o’ God, don’t leave 
me to die alone ! ” 

They assured him that they would soon return. 
Then, making him as comfortable as possible, 
they went, — without hesitation, without one 
backward look. There was no noise. The snow 
fell softly and silently through the firs ; the river 
flowed swiftly through its wild banks. The sick 
man lay with closed eyes, trustfully. But the 
dog knew. For the first time he left his master. 
He ran after them, and threw himself before them, 
moaning. His lifted eyes had a soul in them. 

213 


IN the: bitter root mountains 


He leaped before them, and upon them, licking 
their hands and clothing ; he cast himself prone 
upon their feet, like one praying. No human 
being ever entreated for his life so passionately, 
so pathetically, as that dog pleaded for his mas- 
ter’s. 

At last, half desperate as they were, they 
kicked him savagely and flung him off. With a 
look in his eyes that haunted them as long as 
they lived, he retreated then to his master’s side, 
and lay down in a heavy huddle of despair, 
still watching them. As they disappeared, he 
lifted his head, and for the last time they heard 
that long, heart-breaking howl. 

It was answered by a coyote in the canyon 
above. 

A week later the Associated Press sent out the 
following dispatch : 

“The Darnell party, who were supposed to have per- 
ished in the Bitter Root Mountains, returned last night. 
Their hardships and sufferings were terrible. There is 
great rejoicing over their safe return. They were com- 
pelled to leave the cook, who had been sick the entire 
time, to die in the mountains. But for their determined 
efforts to bring him out alive, they would certainly have 
returned a month earlier.” 

The world read the dispatch and rejoiced with 
those rejoicing. But one woman, reading it, 
fell, as one dead, beside her laughing boy, 

214 


PATIENCE APPEEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 


li 













PATIENCE APPEEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 


“ It must be goin’ to rain ! My arm aches me 
so I can hardly hold my knitting needles.” 

“Hunh!” said Mrs. Wincoop. She twisted 
her thread around her fingers two or three times 
to make a knot; then she held her needle up to 
the light and threaded it, closing one eye entirely 
and the other partially, and pursing her mouth 
until her chin was flattened and full of tiny 
wrinkles. She lowered her head and looking at 
Mrs. Willis over her spectacles with a kind of 
good-natured scorn, said — “Is that a sign o’ 
rain?” 

“ It never fails.” Mrs. Willis rocked back and 
forth comfortably. “Eike as not it begins to 
ache me a whole week before it rains.” 

‘ ‘ I never hear tell o’ such a thing in all my 
days,” said Mrs. Wincoop, with unmistakable 
signs of firmness, as she bent over the canton 
flannel night-shirt she was making for Mr. Win- 
coop. 

“Well, mebbe you never. Mebbe you never 
had the rheumatiz. I’ve had it twenty year. 

I can’t get red of it, anyways. I’ve tried the 
217 


PATIENCK APPEEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 


Century liniment — the one that has the man 
riding over snakes an’ things — and the arnicky, 
and ev’ry kind the drug-store keeps. I’ve wore 
salt in my shoes tell they turned white all over ; 
and I kep’ a buckeye in my pocket tell it wore a 
hole and fell out. But I never get red o’ the 
rheumatiz.” 

Mrs. Wincoop took two or three stitches in 
silence; then she said — “ Patience, now, she can 
talk o’ having rheumatiz. She’s most bent in 
two with it when she has it — and that’s near all 
the time.” 

The rocking ceased abruptly. Mrs. Willis’s 
brows met, giving a look of sternness to her face. 

‘‘That’s a good piece o’ cotton flannel,” she 
said. ‘‘Hefty! Fer pity’s sake! D’ you put 
ruffles on the bottom o’ Mr. Wincoop’s night- 
shirt ? Whatever d’you do that fer ?” 

‘‘Because he likes ’em that way,” responded 
Mrs. Wincoop, tartly. ‘‘There’s no call fer re- 
marks as I see. Mis’ Willis. You put a pocket 
’n Mr. Willis’s, and paw never’d have that — 
never!” flrmly. 

‘‘Well, I never see ruffles on a man’s night- 
shirt before,” said Mrs. Willis, laughing rathei 
aggravatingly. “But they do look reel pretty, 
anyways.” 

“The longer you live the more you learn.” 
Mrs. Wincoop spoke condescendingly. “Bui 
218 


patience; Appleby’s conpessing-up 


talking about Patience — have you see her lately ?’ ’ 

“No, I ain’t.” Mrs. Willis got up suddenly 
and commenced rummaging about on the table ; 
there were two red spots on her thin face. “I’d 
most fergot to show you my new winter under- 
clo’s. Ain’t them nice and warm, though? 
They feel so good to my rheumatiz. I keep think- 
ing about them that can’t get any. My, such 
hard times ! All the banks broke, and no more 
prospect of good times than of a hen’s being 
hatched with teeth ! It puts me all of a trimble 
to think o’ the winter here and ev’ry body so hard 
up. It’s a pretty pass we’ve come to.” 

“ I should say so. I don’t see what Patience 
is a-going to live on this winter. She ain’t fit to 
do anything ; her rheumatiz is awful. She ain’t 
got any fine wool underclo’s.” 

Mrs. Willis sat down again, but she did not 
rock ; she sat upright, holding her back stiff and 
her thin shoulders high and level. 

‘ ‘ I guess this tight spell ’ll learn folks to lay by 
money when they got it,” she said, sternly. “I 
notice we ain’t got any mortgage on our place, 
and I notice we got five thousand dollars in- 
vested. We got some cattle besides. We ain’t 
frittered ev’rything we made away on foolishness, 
like some that I know of. We have things good 
and comf ’terble, but we don’t put on any style. 
Took at that Mis’ Abernathy ! I caught her 


219 


PATIENCE Appleby’s confessing-up 


teeheeing behind my back when I was buying 
red checked table clo’s. Her husband a book- 
keeper ! And her a-putting on airs over me that 
could buy her up any day in the week ! Now, 
he’s lost his place, and I reckon she’ll come down 
a peg or two.” 

“She’s been reel good to Patience, anyways,” 
said Mrs. Wincoop. 

Mrs. Willis knitted so fast her needles fairly 
rasped together. 

“She takes her in jell and perserves right 
frequent. You mind Patience always liked sweet 
things even when her ’n’ Lizy was girls together, 
Eunice.” 

It was so unusual for one of these two women 
to speak the other’s name that they now ex- 
changed quick looks of surprise. Indeed, Mrs. 
Wincoop seemed the more surprised of the two. 
But the hard, matter-of-fact expression returned 
at once to each face. If possible, Mrs. Willis 
looked more grim and sour than before the un- 
wonted address had startled her out of her com- 
posure. 

“Well,” she said, scarcely unclosing her thin 
lips, ‘ ‘ I reckon she had all the sweet things she 
was a-hankering after when she was a girl. I 
reckon she had a plenty and to spare, and I ex- 
pect they got to tasting pretty bitter a good spell 
ago. Too much sweet always leaves a bit’rish 


220 


PATIENCK APPI^EBY’S CONFESSING-UP 


taste in the mouth. My religion is — do what’s 
right, and don’t wink at them that does wrong. 
I’ve stuck to my religion. I reckon you can’t 
get anybody to stand up and put their finger on 
anything wrong I’ve done — nor any of my fam- 
bly, either.” Mrs. Wincoop put her hand on her 
chest and coughed mournfully. ” I^et them that’s 
sinned^'' went on Mrs. Willis, lifting her pale, 
cold eyes and setting them full on her visitor, 
‘‘make allowance fer sinners, say I. Mis’ Abei- 
nathy, or Mis’ Anybody Else, can pack all the 
clo’s and all the sweet things they’ve got a mind to 
over to Patience Appleby ; mebbe they’ve sinned, 
too — /don’t know! But I do know that I 
ain’t, and so I don’t pack things over to her, even 
if she is all doubled up with the rheumatiz,” un- 
consciously imitating Mrs. Wincoop’s tone. ‘‘And 
I don’t make no allowance for her sins, either. 
Mis’ Wincoop.” 

A faint color came slowly, as if after careful 
consideration, to Mrs. Wincoop’s face. 

‘‘There wa’n’t no call fer you a- telling that,” 
she said, with a great calmness. ‘‘The whole 
town knows you wouldn’t fergive a sin, if your 
forgiving it ’u’d save the sinner hisself from being 
lost ! The whole town knows what your religion 
is. Mis’ Willis. You set yourself up and call 
yourself perfeck, and wrap yourself up in your- 
self—” 


221 


PATiKNCE Appleby’s confessing-up 


“There come the men — sh !” said Mrs. Willis. 
Her face relaxed, but with evident reluctance. 
She began to knit industriously. But the temp- 
tation to have the last word was strong. 

“It ain’t my religion, either,” she said, her 
voice losing none of its determination because 
it was lowered. “ I’d of fergive her if she’d a-con- 
fessed up. We all tried to get her to. I tried 
more ’n anybody. I told her” — in a tone of 
conviction — “that nobody but a brazen thing 
’u’d do what she’d done and not confess up to ’t 
— and it never fazed her. She wouldn't confess 
up.” 

The men were scraping their feet noisily now 
on the porch, and Mrs. Willis leaned back with a 
satisfied expression, expecting no reply. But 
Mrs. Wincoop surprised her. She was sewing 
the last pearl button on Mr. Wincoop’s night- 
shirt, and as she drew the thread through and 
fastened it with scrupulous care, she said, with- 
out looking up — “I don’t take much stock in 
confessings myself, Mis’ Willis. I don’t see just 
how confessings is good for the soul when they 
hurt so many innocent ones as well as the guilty 
ones. Ev’ ry confessing afiex somebody else ; and 
so I say if you repent and want to atone you can 
do ’t without confessing and bringing disgrace on 
others. It’s nothing but curiosity that makes 
people holler out — ‘ Confess-up now ! Confess- 


222 


PATIENCE appeeby’s confessing-up 


up now.’ It ain’t anybody’s business but God’s 
— and I reckon He knows when a body’s sorry 
he’s sinned and wants to do better, and I reckon 
He helps him just as much as if he got up on a 
church tower and kep’ a-hollering out — ‘Oh, 
good grieve, I’ve sinned! I’ve sinned I’ — so ’s 
the whole town could run and gap’ at him I Mis’ 
Willis, if some confessing-ups was done in this 
, town that I know of, some people ’u’d be affected 
^ that ’u’d surprise you.” Then she lifted up her 
voice cheerfully — “That you, father ? Well, d’ 
you bring the lantern ? I reckon we’d best go 
right home ; it’s getting latish, and Mis’ Willis 
thinks, from the way her arm aches her, that it’s 
going to rain.” 

Mrs. Willis sat knitting long after Mr. Willis 
had gone to bed. Her face was more stem even 
than usual. She sat uncomfortably erect and did 
not rock. When the clock told ten, she arose 
stiffly and rolled the half finished stocking around 
the ball of yarn, fastening it there with the needles. 
Then she laid it on the table and stood looking at 
it intently, without seeing it. “I wonder,” she 
said, at last, drawing a deep breath, “ what she 
was a-driving at I I’d give a pretty to know.” 


“Mother, where’s my Sund’y pulse-warmers 
at?” 


223 


PATIKNCE APPI^EBY’S CONFESSING-UP 

“ / don’t know where your Sund’y pulse-warm- 
ers are at. Father, you’d aggravate a body into 
her grave ! You don’t half look up anything — 
and then begin asking me where it’s at. What’s 
under that bunch o’ collars in your drawer? 
lyooks some like your Sund’y pulse-warmers, don’t 
it? This ain’t Sund’y, anyways. Wa’n’t your 
ev’ryday ones good enough to wear just to a 
church meeting?” 

Mr. Willis had never been known to utter an 
oath ; but sometimes he looked as if his heart 
were full of them. 

“I reckon you don’t even know where your 
han’ke’cher’s at, father.” 

“Yes, I do, mother. I guess you might stop 
talking, an’ come on now — I’m all ready.” 

He preceded his wife, leaving the front door 
open for her to close and lock. He walked stiffly, 
holding his head straight, lest his collar should 
cramp his neck or prick his chin. He had a con- 
scious, dressed-up air. He carried in one hand a 
lantern, in the other an umbrella. It was seven 
o’clock of a Thursday evening and the bell was 
ringing for prayer-meeting. There was to be a 
church meeting afterward, at which the name of 
Patience Appleby was to be brought up for mem- 
bership. Mrs. Willis breathed hard and deep as 
she thought of it. 

She walked behind her husband to receive the 


224 


PATIENCE APPEEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 


full light of the lantern, holding her skirts up 
high above her gaiter-tops which were so large 
and so worn as to elastic, that they fairly ruffled 
around her spare, flat ankles. Her shadow danced 
in piece-meal on the picket fence. After a while 
she said — 

“ Father, I wish you wouldn’t keep swinging 
that lantern so ! A body can’t see where to put 
their feet down. Who’s that ahead o’ us?” 

“ I can’t make out yet.” 

“ No wonder — you keep swinging that lantern 
so ! Father, what does possess you to be so aggra- 
vating ? If I’d of asked you to swing it, you 
• wouldn’t of b’en drug to do it !” 

Mrs. Willis was guiltless of personal vanity, 
but she did realize the importance of her position 
in village society, and something of this impor- 
tance was imparted to her carriage as she followed 
Mr. Willis up the church aisle. She felt that 
every eye was regarding her with respect, and 
held her shoulders so high that her comfortable 
shawl fell therefrom in fuller folds than usual. 
She sat squarely in the pew, looking steadily and 
unwinkingly at the wonderful red velvet cross 
that hung over the spindle-legged pulpit, her 
hands folded firmly in her lap. She had never 
been able to understand how Sister Wirth who 
sat in the pew in front of the Willises, could al- 
ways have her head a-lolling over to one side like 


225 


patience; Appleby’s confessing-up 

a giddy, sixteen-year-old. Mrs. Willis abomi- 
nated such actions in a respectable, married 
woman of family. 

Mr. Willis crouched down uneasily in the cor- 
ner of the seat and sat motionless, with a self- 
conscious blush across his weak eyes. His 
umbrella, banded so loosely that it bulged like a 
soiled-clothes bag, stood up against the back of 
the next pew. 

At the close of prayer-meeting no one stirred 
from his seat. An ominous silence fell upon the 
two dozen people assembled there. The clock 
ticked loudly, and old lady Scranton, who suffered 
of asthma, wheezed with every breath and whis- 
pered to her neighbor that she was getting so 
phthisicy she wished to mercy they’d hurry up or 
she’d have to go home without voting. At last 
one of the deacons arose and said with great 
solemnity that he understood sister Wincoop had 
a name to propose for membership. 

When Mrs. Wincoop stood up she looked pale 
but determined. Mrs. Willis would not turn to 
look at her, but she caught every word spoken. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wincoop, “I want to bring 
up the name of Patience Appleby. I reckon you 
all know Patience Appleby. She was born here, 
and she’s always lived here. There 's them that 
says she done wrong onct, but I guess she’s 
about atoned up for that — if any mortal living 

226 


PATIENCE APPEEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 


has. I’ve know her fifteen year, and I don’t 
know any better behaving woman anywheres. 
She never talks about anybody ” — her eyes went 
to Mrs. Willis’s rigid back — “and she never 
complains. She’s alone and poor, and all crippled 
up with the rheumatiz. She wants to join church 
and live a Christian life, and I, fer one, am in fa- 
vor o’ us a-holding out our hand to her and help- 
ing her up.’’ 

“ Amen !’’ shrilled out the minister on one of 
his upper notes. There was a general rustle of 
commendation — whispers back and forth, nod- 
dings of heads, and many encouraging glances 
directed toward sister Wincoop. 

But of a sudden silence fell upon the small as- 
sembly. Mrs. Willis had arisen. Her expression 
was grim and uncompromising. At that moment 
sister Shidler’s baby choked in its sleep, and cried 
so loudly and so gaspingly that every one turned 
to look at it. 

In the momentary confusion Mr. Willis caught 
hold of his wife’s dress and tried to pull her down ; 
but the unfortunate man only succeeded in rip- 
ping a handful of gathers from the band. Mrs. 
Willis looked down at him from her thin height. 

“You let my gethers be,’’ she said, fiercely. 
“You might of knew you’d tear ’em, a-taking 
holt of ’em that way !’’ 

Then quiet was restored and the wandering eyes 

227 


PATIENCE APPEEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 


came back to Mrs. Willis. ‘ ‘ Brothers and sis- 
ters,” she said, ‘‘it ain’t becoming in me to 
remind you all what Mr. Willis and me have done 
fer this church. It ain’t becoming in me to re- 
mind you about the organ, and the new bell, and 
the carpet fer the aisles — let alone our paying 
twenty dollars more a year than any other mem- 
ber. I say it ain’t becoming in me, and I never 
'd mention it if it wa’n’t that I don’t feel like hav- 
ing Patience Appleby in this church. If she does 
come in, /go out.” 

A tremor passed through the meeting. The 
minister turned pale and stroked his meagre whis- 
kers nervously. He was a worthy man, and he 
believed in saving souls. He had prayed and 
plead with Patience to persuade her to unite with 
the church, but he had not felt the faintest pre- 
sentiment that he was quarreling with his own 
bread and butter in so doing. One soul scarcely 
balances a consideration of that kind — especially 
when a minister has six children and a wife with 
a chronic disinclination to do anything but look 
pretty and read papers at clubs and things. It 
was small wonder that he turned pale. 

“ I want that you all should know just how I 
feel about it,” continued Mrs. Willis. ‘‘ I believe 
in doing what’s right yourself and not excusing 
them that does wrong. I don’t believe in having 
people like Patience Appleby in this church ; and 
228 


PATIENCE appeeby’s confessing-up 


she don’t come in while Pm in, neither. That’s 
all I got to say. I want that you all should un- 
derstand plain that her coming in means my going 
out.” 

Mrs. Willis sat down, well satisfied. She saw 
that she had produced a profound sensation. 
Every eye turned to the minister with a look that 
said, plainly — “ What have you to say to that?" 

But the miserable man had not a word to say to 
it. He sat helplessly stroking his whiskers, try- 
ing to avoid the eyes of both Mrs. Wincoop and 
Mrs. Willis. At last Deacon Berry said — ‘ ‘ Why, 
sister Willis, I think if a body repents and wants 
to do better, the church ’ad ort to help ’em. 
That’s what churches are for.” 

Mrs. Willis cleared her throat. 

” I don’t consider that a body’s repented. Dea- 
con Berry, tell he confesses-up. Patience Apple- 
by’s never done that to this day. When she does, 
I’m willing to take her into this church.” 

“Brothers and sisters,” said Mrs. Wincoop, in 
a voice that held a kind of cautious triumph, “ I 
fergot to state that Patience Appleby reckoned 
mebbe somebody ’u’d think she’d ort to confess 
before she come into the church ; and she wanted 
I should ask the meeting to a’point Mis’ Willis a 
committee o’ one fer her to confess up to. Pati- 
ence reckoned if she could satisfy Mis’ Willis, 
ev’rybody else ’u’d be satisfied.” 

229 


PATIENCE APPLEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 


“Why — yes,” cried the minister, with cheer- 
ful eagerness. “That’s all right — bless the 
lyord ! ’’ he added, in that jaunty tone with which 
so many ministers daily insult our God, “ I know 
Mrs. Willis and Patience will be able to smooth 
over all difficulties. I think we may now ad- 
journ.” 

‘ ‘ Whatever did she do that fer ? ” said Mrs. 
Willis, following the lantern homeward. “She’s 
got something in her mind, / know, or she’d 
never want me a’p’inted. Father, what made you 
pull my gethers out? D’you think you could 
make me set down when I’d once made up my 
mind to stand up? You’d ought to know me 
better by this time. This is my secon’-best dress, 
and I’ve only wore it two winters — and now 
look at all these gethers tore right out ! ’ ’ 

“You hadn’t ought to get up and make a fool 
o’ yourself, mother. You’d best leave Patience 
Appleby be.” 

“You’d ort to talk about anybody a-making a 
fool o’ hisself ! After you a-pulling my gethers 
clean out o’ the band — right in meeting ! You’ d 
ort to tell me I’d best leave Patience Appleby be ! 
I don’t mean to leave her be. I mean to let her 
know she can’t ac’ scandalous, and then set her- 
self up as being as good’s church folks and Christ- 
ians. /’// give her her come-uppings ! ” 

For probably the first time in his married life 
230 


PATIENCE Appleby’s confessing-up 


Mr. Willis yielded to his feelings. “God- 
a’mighty, mother,” he said; “sometimes you 
don’t seem to have common sense ! I reckon 
you’d best leave Patience Appleby be, if you 
know when you’re well off.” Then, frightened 
at what he had said, he walked on, hurriedly, 
swinging the lantern harder than ever. 

Mrs. Willis walked behind him, dumb. 


The day was cold and gray. Mrs. Willis 
opened with difficulty the broken-down gate that 
shut in Patience Appleby’s house. “And no 
wonder,” she thought, “it swags down so ! ” 

There was a foot of snow on the ground. The 
path to the old, shabby house was trackless. Not 
a soul had been there since the snow fell — and that 
was two days ago ! Mrs. Willis shivered under 
her warm shawl. 

Patience opened the door. Her slow, heavy 
steps on the bare floor of the long hall affected 
Mrs. Willis strangely. 

Patience was very tall and thin. She stooped, 
and her chest was .sunken. She wore a dingy 
gray dress, mended in many places. There was 
a small, checked shawl folded in a “three-cor- 
nered” way about her shoulders. She coughed 
before she could greet her visitor. 


231 


PATIENCE Appleby’s confessing-up 


“ How d’you do, Mis’ Willis,” she said, at last. 
” Come in, won’t you? ” 

“How are you. Patience?” Mrs. Willis said, 
and, to her own amazement, her voice did not 
sound as stern as she had intended it should. 

She had been practicing as she came along, 
and this voice bore no resemblance whatever to 
the one she had been having in her mind. Nor, 
as she preceded Patience down the bare, draughty 
hall to the sitting-room, did she bear herself with 
that degree of frigid dignity which she had al- 
ways considered most fitting to her position, both 
socially and morally. 

Somehow, the evidences of poverty on every 
side chilled her blood. The sitting-room was 
worse, even, than the hall. A big, empty room 
with a small fire-place in one corner, wherein a 
few coals were turning gray ; a threadbare car- 
pet, a couple of chairs, a little table with the 
Bible on it, ragged wall-paper, and a shelf in one 
corner filled with liniment bottles. 

Mrs. Willis sat down in one of the rickety 
chairs, and Patience, after stirring up the coals, 
drew the other to the hearth. 

“I’m afraid the room feels kind o’ coolish,” she 
said. ” I’ve got the last o’ the coal on.” 

‘‘D’you mean,” said Mrs. Willis — and again 
her voice surprised her — ‘‘that you’re all out o’ 
coal?” 

232 


PATIENCE APPEEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 


“All out.” Slie drew the tiny shawl closer to 
her throat with trembling, bony fingers. ‘ ‘ But 
Mis’ Abernathy said she’d send me a scuttleful 
over today. I hate to take it from her, too ; her 
husband’s lost his position and they ain’t overly 
well off. But sence my rheumatiz has been so 
bad I can’t earn a thing.” 

Mrs. Willis stared hard at the coals. For the 
life of her she could think of nothing but her 
own basement filled to the ceiling with coal. 

“I reckon,” said Patience, “you’ve come to 
hear my confessing-up ? ” 

“Why — yes.” Mrs. Willis started guiltily. 

“What’s the charges agen me. Mis’ Willis?” 

Mrs. Willis’s eyelids fell heavily. 

“Why, I reckon you know. Patience. You 
done wrong onct when you was a girl, and I 
don’t think we’d ort to take you into the church 
tell you own up to it. ’ ’ 

There was a little silence. Then Patience 
said, drawing her breath in heavily — “ Mebbe I 
did do wrong onct when I was a little girl — only 
fourteen, say. But that’s thirty year ago, and 
that’s a long time. Mis’ Willis. I don’t think I’d 
ort to own up to it.” 

“/think you’d ort.” 

“Mis’ Willis,” — Patience spoke solemnly. 
“D’you think I’d ort to own up if it ’u’d afiec’ 
somebody else thet ain’t never b’en talked about ? ” 

. 233 


PATIENCE APPEEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 

“Yes, I do,“ said Mrs. Willis, firmly. “If 
they deserve to be talked about, they’d ort to be 
talked about.” 

‘ ‘ Even if it was about the best folks in town ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Yes. ” Mrs. Willis thought of the minister. 

“Even if it was about the best-off folks? 
Folks that hold their head the highest, and give 
most to churches and missionary ; and thetev’ry- 
bod}-^ looks up to ? ” 

“ Ye-es,” said Mrs. Willis. That did not de- 
scribe the minister, certainly. She could not 
have told you why her heart began to beat so 
violently. Somehow, she had been surprised out 
of the attitude she had meant to assume. Instead 
of walking in boldly and haughtily, and giving 
Patience her “ come-uppings,” she was finding it 
difScult to conquer a feeling of pity for the 
enemy because she was so poor and so cold. She 
must harden her heart. 

“Even” — Patience lowered her eyes to the 
worn carpet — “if it was folks thet had b’en 
loudest condemin’ other folks’s sins, and that had 
bragged high and low thet there wa’n’t no dis- 
grace in their fambly, and never had b’en none, 
and who’d just be about killed by my confessing- 
up? ” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Willis, sternly. But she 
paled to the lips. 

“ I don’t think so,” said Patience, slowly. “ I 


234 


PATIENCE Appleby’s coneessing-up 


think a body’d ort to have a chance if they want 
to live better, without havin’ anybody a-pryin’ 
into their eflfairs exceptin’ God. But if you don’t 
agree with me, I’m ready to confess-up all I've 
done bad. I guess you recollect, Mis’ Willis, 
thet your ’I^izy and me was just of an age, to a 
day?” 

Mrs. Willis’s lips moved, but the words stuck 
in her throat. 

“And how we ust to play together and stay 
nights with each other. We loved each other, 
Mis’ Willis. You ust to give us big slices o’ 
salt-risin’ bread, spread thick with cream and 
sprinkled with brown sugar — I can just see you 
now, a-goin’ out to the spring-house to get the 
cream. And I can just taste it, too, when I get 
good and hungry.” 

“ What’s all this got to do with youra-owning 
up? ” demanded Mrs. Willis, fiercely. “ What’s 
my ’Lizy got to do with your going away that 
time? Where was you at. Patience Appleby?” 

“I’m cornin’ to that,” said Patience, calmly; 
but a deep flush came upon her face. “I’ve at- 
toned-up fer that time, if any mortal bein’ ever 
did. Mis’ Willis. I’ve had a hard life, but I’ve 
never complained, because I thought the I^ord 
was a-punishin’ me. But I have suffered. . . . 
Thirty year. Mis’ Willis, of prayin’ to be fergive 
fer one sin ! But I ain’t ever see the day I could 


235 


patie:ncs appi^eby’s confessing-up 


confess-up to 't — and I couldn’t now, except to 
’lyizy’s mother.” 

An awful trembling shook Mrs. Willis’s heart. 
She looked at Patience with straining eyes. ” Go 
on,” she said, hoarsely. 

‘‘ ’Lizy and me was fourteen on the same day. 
She was goin’ to Four Corners to visit her a’nt, 
but I had to stay at home and work. I was 
cryin’ about it when, all of a sudden, ’Lizy 
says — ” Patience, let’s up and have a good time 
on our birthday ! ” 

“Well, let’s,” Isays, “but how?” 

“I’ll start fer Four Corners and then you run 
away, and I’ll meet you, and we’ll go to Spring- 
ville to the circus and learn to ride bareback ” — 

Mrs. Willis leaned forward in her chair. Her 
face was very white ; her thin hands were clenched 
so hard the knuckles stood out half an inch. 

“Patience Appleby,” she said, “you’re a 
wicked, sinful liar ! May the Lord A’ mighty fer- 
give you — / won’ t. ’ ’ 

“ I ain’t askin’ you to take my word ; you can 
ask Mr. Willis hisself. He didn’t go to Spring- 
ville to buy him a horse, like he told you he did. 
’Lizy and me had been at the circus two days 
when she tuk sick, and I sent fer Mr. Willis un- 
beknownst to anybody. He come and tuk her 
home and fixed it all up with her a’nt at Four 
Comers, and give out thet she’d been a-visitin’ 
236 


PATIENCE APPEEBY’S CONEESSING-UP 


there. But I had to sneak home alone and live 
an outcast’s life ever sence, and see her set up 
above me — just because Mr. Willis got down to 
beg me on his knees never to tell she was with 
me. And I never did tell a soul, Mis’ Willis, tell 
last winter I was sick with a fever and told Mis’ 
Wincoop when I was out o’ my head. But she’s 
never told anybody, either, and neither of us ever 
will. Mr. Willis has helped me as much as he 
could without youra-findin’ it out, but I knowhow 
it feels to be hungry and cold, and I know how it 
feels to see ’Bizy set up over me, and marry rich, 
and have nice children ; and ride by me ’n her 
kerriage without so much as lookin’ at me — and 
me a-chokin’ with the dust off o’ her kerriage 
wheels. But I never complained none, and I ain’t 
a-complainin’ now. Mis’ Willis ; puttin’ ’I/izy 
down wouldn’t help me any. But I do think it’s 
hard if I can’t be let into the church.” 

Her thin voice died away and there was silence. 
Patience sat staring at the coals with the dullness 
of despair on her face. Mrs. Willis’s spare frame 
had suddenly taken on an old, pathetic stoop. 
What her haughty soul had suffered during that 
recital, for which she had been so totally unpre- 
pared, Patience would never realize. The world 
seemed to be slipping from under the old woman’s 
trembling feet. She had been so strong in her 
condemnation of sinners because she had felt so 


237 


PATIENCE APPEEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 


sure she should never have any trading with sin 
herself. And lo ! all these years her own daugh- 
ter — her one beloved child, dearer than life itself 
— had been as guilty as this poor outcast from 
whom she had always drawn her skirts aside, as 
from a leper. Ay, her daughter had been the 
guiltier of the two. She was not spared that bit- 
terness, even. Her harsh sense of justice forced 
her to acknowledge, even in that first hour, that 
this woman had borne herself nobly, while her 
daughter had been a despicable coward. 

It had been an erect, middle-aged woman who 
had come to give Patience Appleby her “ come-up- 
pings ; ” it was an old, broken-spirited one who 
went stumbling home in the early, cold twilight 
of the winter day. The fierce splendor of the 
sunset had blazed itself out ; the world was a 
monotone in milky blue — save for one high line 
of dull crimson clouds strung along the horizon. 

A shower of snow-birds sunk in Mrs. Willis’s 
path, but she did not see them. She went up the 
path and entered her comfortable home ; and she 
fell down upon her stiff knees beside the first chair 
she came to — and prayed as she had never prayed 
before in all her hard and selfish life. 

When Mr. Willis came home to supper he found 
his wife setting the table as usual. He started 
for the bedroom, but she stopped him. 

238 


PATIENCE APPEEBY’S CONFESSING-UP 


“We’re a-going to use the front bedroom after 
this, father,” she said. 

“Why, what are we going to do that fer, 
mother?” 

“I’m a-going to give our’n to Patience Ap- 
pleby.” 

“You’re a-going to — what, mother ?” 

“I’m a-going to give our’n to Patience Appleby, 
I say. I’m a-going to bring her here to live, and 
she’s got to have the warmest room in the house, 
because her rheumatiz is worse ’n mine. I’m 
a-going after her myself to-morrow in the ker- 
riage. ” She turned and faced her husband sternly. 
“She’s confessed-up ev’rything. I was dead set 
she should, and she has. I know where she was 
at, that time, and I know who was with her. I 
reckon I’d best beattoning up as well as Patience 
Appleby ; and I’m going to begin by making her 
comt’terble and taking her into the church.” 

“Why, mother,” said the old man, weakly. 
His wife repressed him with one look. 

“Now, don’t go to talking back, father,” she 
said, sternly. ‘ ‘ I reckon you kep’ it from me fer 
the best, but it’s turrable hard on me now. You 
get and wash yourself. I want that you should 
hold this candle while I fry the apple- fritters.” 


239 


f 

I 


wu^ 












THE MOTHER OF “PIEI.S” 


I 


I I 


I 


THE MOTHER OF “ PIETS ” 


‘ ‘ Pills ! Oh, Pills ! You Pillsy !” 

The girl turned from the door of the drug-store, 
and looked back under bent brows at her mother, 
who was wiping graduated glasses with a stained 
towel, at the end of the prescription counter. 

“ I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she said ; 
her tone was impatient but not disrespectful. 

Her mother laughed. She was a big, good- 
natured looking woman, with light-blue eyes and 
sandy eyebrows and hair. She wore a black dress 
that had a cheap, white cord-ruche at the neck. 
There were spots down the front of her dress 
where acids had been spilled and had taken out 
the color. 

“How particular we are gettin’,” she said, 
turning the measuring glass round and round on 
the towel which had been wadded into it. “You 
didn’t use to mind if I called you ‘ Pills,’ just for 
fun.” 

“ Well, I mind now.” 


243 


THE MOTHER OP “ piles” 

The girl took a clean towel from a cupboard 
and began to polish the show-cases, breathing upon 
them now and then. She was a good-looking 
girl. She had strong, handsome features, and 
heavy brown hair, which she wore in a long braid 
down her back. A deep red rose was tucked in 
the girdle of her cotton gown and its head lolled 
to and fro as she worked. Her hands were not 
prettily shaped, but sensitive, and the ends of the 
fingers were square. 

“Well, Mariella, then,” said Mrs. Mansfield, 
still looking amused ; “I was goin’ to ask you if 
you knew the Indians had all come in on their 
way home from hop pickin’.” 

Mariella straightened up and looked at her 
mother. 

‘ ‘ Have they, honest, ma ?’ ’ 

“Yes, they have ; they’re all camped down on 
the beach.” 

“ Oh, I wonder where !” 

“ Why, the Nooksacks are clear down at the 
coal-bunkers, an’ the Lummies close to Timber- 
line’s Row ; an’ the Alaskas are all on the other 
side of the viaduct.” 

“Are they goin’ to have the canoe race? ” 

“Yes, I guess so. I guess it’ll be about sun- 
down to-night. There, you forgot to dust that 
milk-shake. An’ you ain’t touched that shelf o’ 
patent medicines ! ” 


244 


THE MOTHER OP “ PIEES ** 

She set down the last graduate and hung the 
damp towel on a nail. Then she came out into 
the main part of the store and sat down comfort- 
ably behind the counter. 

Long before Mariella was born her father had 
opened a drug-store in the tiny town of Sehome, 
on Puget Sound. There was a coal mine under 
the town. A tunnel led down into it, and the 
men working among the black diamonds, with 
their families, made up the town. But there was 
some trouble, and the mine was abandoned and 
flooded with salt water. The men went away, 
and for many years Sehome was little more than 
a name. A mail boat wheezed up from Seattle 
once a week ; and two or three storekeepers — 
Mr. Mansfield among them — clung to the ragged 
edge of hope and waited for the boom. Before it 
came, Mr. Mansfield was bumped over the ter- 
rible road to the graveyard and laid down among 
the stones and ferns. Then Mrs. Mansfield ‘ ‘ run ’ ’ 
the store. The question “ Can you fill perscrip- 
tions?” was often put to her fearfully by timid 
customers, but she was equal to the occasion. 

“Well, I guess I can,” she would say, squar- 
ing about and looking her questioner unwaver- 
ingly in the eye. “I guess I’d ought to. I’ve 
been in the store with my husband, that’s dead, 
for twenty years. I’m not a regular, but I’m a 


245 


THE MOTHER OF “ PIEES 


practical — an’ that’s better than a regular any 
day.” 

“It’s not so much what you know in a drug- 
store as what you look like you know,” she some- 
times confided to admiring friends. 

It is true Mrs. Mansfied was often perplexed 
over the peculiar curdled appearance of some 
mixture — being as untaught in the mysterious 
ways of emulsions as a babe — but such trifles 
were dismissed with a philosophical sigh, and the 
prescriptions were handed over the counter with 
a complaisance that commanded confidence. The 
doctor hinted, with extreme delicacy, at times, 
that his emulsions did not turn out as smooth as 
he had expected ; or that it would be agreeable 
to find some of his aqueous mixtures tinged with 
cochineal ; or that it was possible to make pills 
in such a way that they would not — so to 
speak — melt in the patient’s mouth before he 
could swallow them. But Mrs. Mansfield invari- 
ably laughed at him in a kind of motherly way, 
and reminded him that he ought to be glad to 
have even a ” practical ” in a place like Sehome. 
And really this was so true that it was unanswer- 
able. 

So Mrs. Mansfield held the fort ; and as her 
medicines, although abominable to swallow, never 
killed any one, she was looked upon with awe 


246 


THE MOTHER OP “ Pn.]LS ” 


and respect by the villagers and the men in the 
neighboring logging-camps. 

Mariella was brought up in the drug-store. 
She had the benefit of her mother’s experience, 
and, besides that, she had studied the ‘ ‘ dispensa- 
tory” — a word, by the way, which Mrs. Mans- 
field began with a capital letter because of the 
many pitfalls from which it had rescued her. 

‘‘Mariella is such a good girl,” her mother 
frequently declared ; ‘‘ she got a real good educa- 
tion over at the Whatcom schools, an’ she’s such 
a help in the drug-store. She does make a beau- 
tiful pill.” 

Indeed, the girl’s pill-making accomplishment 
was so appreciated by Mrs. Mansfield that she 
had nick-named her ‘‘ Pills ” — a name that had 
been the cause of much mirth between them. 

Mariella was now sixteen, and the long-deferred 
‘‘boom” was upon them. Mrs. Mansfield and 
her daughter contemplated it from the store door 
daily with increasing admiration. The wild clover 
no longer velveted the middle of the street. New 
buildings, with red, green or blue fronts and non- 
descript backs, leaped up on every corner and in 
between corners. The hammers and saws made 
music sweeter than any brass band to Sehome 
ears. Day and night the forests blazed backward 
from the town. When there were no customers in 
the store Mariella stood in the door, twisting the 


247 


THE MOTHER OF “ PILES ” 


rope of the awning around her wrist, and watched 
the flames leaping from limb to limb up the tall, 
straight fir-trees. When Sehome hill was burn- 
ing at night, it was a magnificent spectacle ; like 
hundreds of torches dipped into a very hell of 
fire and lifted to heaven by invisible hands — while 
in the East the noble, white dome of Mount Baker 
burst out of the darkness against the lurid sky. 
The old steamer Idaho came down from Seattle 
three times a week now. When she landed, Mrs. 
Mansfield and Mariella, and such customers as 
chanced to be in the store, hurried breathlessly 
back to the little sitting-room, which overlooked 
the bay, to count the passengers. The old colony 
wharf, running a mile out across the tide-lands 
to deep water, would be “ fairly alive with ’em,” 
Mrs. Mansfield declared daily, in an ecstasy of 
anticipation of the good times their coming fore- 
told. She counted never less than a hundred and 
fifty ; and so many walked three and four abreast 
that it was not possible to count all. 

Really, that summer everything seemed to be 
going Mrs. Mansfield’s way. Mariella was a 
comfort to her mother and an attraction to the 
store ; business was excellent ; her property was 
worth five times more than it had ever been be- 
fore ; and, besides — when her thoughts reached 
this point Mrs. Mansfield smiled consciously and 
blushed — there was Mr. Grover ! Mr. Grover 
248 


THE MOTHER OF “ PILES ” 


kept the dry-goods store next door. He liad 
come at the very beginning of the boom. He was 
slim and dark and forty. Mrs. Mansfield was 
forty and large and fair. Both were “well off.” 
Mr. Grover was lonely and “ dropped into ” Mrs. 
Mansfield’s little sitting-room every night. She 
invited him to supper frequently, and he told her 
her that her fried chicken and “cream ” potatoes 
were better than anything he had eaten since his 
mother died. Of late his intentions were not to 
be misunderstood, and Mrs. Mansfield was already 
putting by a cozy sum for a wedding outfit. Only 
that morning she had looked at herself in the 
glass more attentively than usual while combing 
her hair. Some thought made her blush and 
smile. 

“ You ought to be ashamed !” she said, shak- 
ing her head at herself in the glass as at a gay, 
young thing. “To be thinkin’ about gettin’ 
married ! With a big girl like Pills too. One 
good thing : He really seems to think as much , 
of Pills as you do yourself, Mrs. Mansfield. 
That’s what makes me so — happy, I guess. I 
believe it’s the first time I ever was real happy 
before.” She sighed unconsciously as she glanced 
back over her years of married life. “An’ I don’t 
know what makes me so awful happy now. But 
sometimes when I get up of a mornin’ I just feel 


249 


THE mother of “piEES” 

as if I could go out on the hill an’ sing — foolish 
as any of them larks holler’ n’ for joy. 

“ Mariella,” she said, watching the duster in 
the girl’s hands, “what made you flare up so 
when I called you ‘ Pills ?’ You never done that 
before, an’ I don’t see what ails you all of a sud- 
den.” 

“I didn’t mean to flare up,” said Mariella. 
She opened the cigar-case and arranged the boxes 
carefully. Then she closed it with a snap and 
looked at her mother. “But I wish you’d stop 
it, ma. Mr. Grover said ” 

“ Well, what ’id he say?” 

“ He said it wasn’t a nice name to call a girl 
by. ’ ’ Mariella’ s face reddened, but she was stoop- 
ing behind the counter. 

Mrs. Mansfield drummed on the show-case with 
broad fingers and looked thoughtful. 

“Well,” she said with significance, after a 
pause, “ if he don’t like it, I won’t do it. We’ve 
had lots o’ fun over it. Pills, ain’t we — I mean 
Mariella — but I guess he has a right to say what 
you’ll be called. Pi my dear.” 

“ Oh, ma,” said Mariella. Her face was like 
a poppy. 

“Well, I guess you won’t object, will you? 
I’ve been wond’rin’ how you felt about it.” 

“Oh, ma,” faltered the girl ; “do you think, 
honest, he he ” 


250 


THE mother of "piELS” 


“Yes, I do,” replied her mother, laughing com- 
fortably and blushing faintly. “ I’m sure of it. 
An’ I’m happier ’n I ever was in my life over it. 
I don’t think I could give you a better stepfather, 
or one that would think more of you.” 

Mariella stood up slowly behind the counter 
and looked — stared — across the room at her 
mother, in a dazed, uncomprehending way. The 
color ebbed slowly out of her face. She did not 
speak, but she felt the muscles about her mouth 
jerking. She pressed her lips more tightly to- 
gether. 

“I hope you don’t think I oughtn’t to marry 
again,” said her mother, returning her look with- 
out understanding it in the least. “Your pa’s 
been dead ten years ” — this in an injured tone. 

“ There ain’t many women Oh, good mornin’, 

Mr. Lester ? Mariella, ’ll you wait on Mr. Les- 
ter? Well” — beaming good naturedly on her 
customer — ‘ ‘ how’s real estate this mornin’ ? Any 
new sales afoot?” 

^*Are there ?” repeated that gentleman, leaning 
on the show-case and lighting his cigar, innocent 
of intentional discourtesy. “ Well, I should smile 
— and smile broadly too, Mrs. Mansfield. 
There’s a Minneapolis chap here that’s buyin’ 
right an’ left ; just slashin' things ! He’s bought 
a lot o’ water-front property, too ; an’ let me tell 
you, right now, that Jim Hill’s behind him ; an’ 

251 


THK MOTHER OP “ PIELS ” 


Jim Hill’s the biggest railroad man in the U. S. 
to-day, an’ the Great Northern’s behind himr" 

“Well, I hope so.’’ Mrs. Mansfield drew 
a long breath of delight. Mr. lister smiled, 
shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands, and 
sauntered out with the air of a man who has the 
ear of railroad kings. 

“Are you goin’ to the canoe races to-night, 
Mariella?’’ began her mother, in a conciliatory 
tone. 

“ I don’t know. Might as well, I guess.” 

The girl was wiping the shelf bottles now ; her 
face was pale, but her back was to her mother. 

“Well, we will have an early supper, so you 
can get off. Mercy, child ! Did you break one 
o’ them glass labels? How often ’v’ I told you 
not to press on ’em so hard? What one is it? 
The tincture cantharides ! Well, tie a string 
around it, so we’ll know what it is. There ain’t 
no label on the aconite bottle, nor the Jamaica 
ginger either — an’ them settin’ side by side, too. 
I hate guessin’ at things in a drug-store — ’spe- 
cially when one’s a poison. Have you scoured up 
them spatulas?” 

* “Yes’m.” 

“Well, I’ll go in an’ do up the dishes, an’ 
leave you to ’tend store. Don’t forget to make 
Mr. Benson’s pills.” 

But Mr. Benson’s pills were not made right 
252 


THE MOTHER OF “ PILLS ” 


away. When her mother was gone, Mariella got 
down from the step-ladder and leaned one elbow 
on the show-case and rested her chin in her hand. 
Her throat swelled in and out fitfully, and the 
blue veins showed, large and full, on her temples. 
For a long time she stood thus, twisting the towel 
in her hand and looking at the fires on the hill 
without seeing them. Some of their dry burning 
seemed to get into her own eyes. 

Mr. Grover, passing, glanced in. 

“ Mariella,” he said, putting one foot across 
the threshold, ‘ ‘ are you goin’ to the canoe 
races? ” 

The girl had darted erect instantly, and put on 
a look of coquettish indifierence. 

“Yes, I am.” Her eyes flashed at him over 
her shoulder from the corners of their lids as she 
started back to the prescription-case. ‘ ‘ I’m goin’ 
with Charlie Walton ! ” 

When Mariella had gone to the races that 
night, and customers were few and far between, 
Mr. Grover walked with a determined air through 
Mrs. Mansfield’s store and, pushing aside the 
crimson canton-flannel portieres, entered her 
cheerful sitting-room. On the floor was a Brus- 
sels carpet, large-flowered and vivid. A sewing- 
machine stood in one corner and Mariella’s organ 
in another. The two narrow windows over-look- 
ing the sound were gay with blooming geraniums 
■ 253 


THE MOTHER OF “ PILLS ” 


and white curtains tied with red ribbons. There 
was a trunk deceptively stuffed and cretonned 
into the semblance of a settee ; and there was a 
wicker-chair that was full of rasping, aggravating 
noises when you rocked in it. It had red ribbon 
twisted through its back and arms. Mrs. Mans- 
field was sitting in it now, reading a novel, and 
the chair was complaining unceasingly. 

Mr. Grover sat down on the trunk. 

“ Mrs. Mansfield,” he said, looking squarely at 
her, “I’ve got somethin’ to ask of you, an’ I’m 
goin’ to do it while Mariella’s away.” 

“That so?” said Mrs. Mansfield. 

The color in her cheek deepened almost to a 
purple. She put one hand up to her face, and 
with the other nervously wrinkled the corners of 
the leaves of her novel. She lowered her lids 
resolutely to hide the sudden joy in her eyes. 

“ I guess you know what I’ve been cornin’ 
here so much for. I couldn’t help thinkin’, too, 
that you liked the idea an’ was sort of encouragin’ 
me.” 

Mrs. Mansfield threw one hand out tow^ard him 
in a gesture at once deprecating, coquettish and 
helpful. 

“Oh, you!” she exclaimed, laughing and 
coloring more deeply. There was decided en- 
couragement in her honest blue eyes under their 
sandy lashes. 


254 


THE MOTHER OP ** PILES ” 


“ Well, didn’t you, now ? ” Mr. Grover leaned 
toward her. 

She hesitated, fingering the leaves of her book. 
She turned her head to one side ; the leaves 
swished softly as they swept past her broad 
thumb ; the comers of her mouth curled in a tremu- 
lous smile ; the fingers of her other hand moved 
in an unconscious caress across her warm cheek ; 
she remembered afterward that the band across 
the bay on the long pier, where the races were, 
was playing “Annie Laurie,” and that the odor 
of wild musk, growing outside her window in a 
box, was borne in, sweet and heavy, by the sea 
winds. It was the one perfect moment of Mrs. 
Mansfield’s life — in which there had been no 
moments that even approached perfection ; in 
which there had been no hint of poetry — only 
dullest, everyday prose. She had married be- 
cause she had been taught that women should 
marry ; and Mr. Mansfield had been a good hus- 
band. She always said that ; and she did not 
even know that she always sighed after saying it. 
Her regard for Mr. Grover was the poetry — the 
wine — of her hard, frontier life. Never before 
that summer had she stood and listened to the 
message of the meadow-lark with a feeling of ex- 
altation that brought tears to her eyes ; or gone 
out to gather wild pink clover with the dew on 
it ; or turned her broad foot aside to spare a worm. 


255 


The mother of "pn.LvS 


Not that Mr. Grover ever did any of these things ; 
but that love had lifted the woman’s soul and 
given her the new gift of seeing the beauty of 
common things. No one had guessed that there 
was a change in her heart, not even Mariella. 

It was well that Mrs. Mansfield prolonged that 
perfect moment. When she did lift her eyes there 
was a kind of appealing tenderness in them. 

“I guess I did,” she said. 

‘‘Well, then,” — Mr. Grover drew a breath of 
relief — ‘‘ you might’s well say I can have her. I 
want it all understood before she gets home. I 
want to stop her runnin’ with that Walton. Once 
or twice I’ve been afraid you’d just as leave she’d 
marry him as me. I don’t like to see girls galli- 
vant with two or three fellows.” 

Mrs. Mansfield sat motionless, looking at him. 
Her eyes did not falter ; the smile did not wholly 
vanish from her face. Only the blood throbbed 
slowly away, leaving it paler than Mariella’s had 
been that morning. She understood her mistake 
almost before his first sentence. While he was 
speaking her thoughts were busy. She felt the 
blood coming back when she remembered what 
she had said to Mariella. If only she had not 
spoken ! 

“ Well,” she said, calmly, “ have you said any- 
thing to Mariella?” 

‘‘ Yes, I have ; lots o’ times. An’ I know she 
256 


The mother of “piees” 


likes me ; but she’s some flirtish, and that’s what 
I want to put a stop to. So, with your permis- 
sion, I’ll have a talk with her to-night.” 

“I’d like to talk to her first myself.” Mrs. 
Mansfield looked almost stern. “But I guess 
it’ll be all right, Mr. Grover. If you’d just as 
soon wait till to-morrow, I’d like to be alone and 
make up my mind what to say to her.” 

Mr. Grover got up and shook hands with her 
awkwardly. 

“I’ll make her a good husband,” he said, earn- 
estly. 

“I don’t doubt that,” replied Mrs. Mansfield. 

Then he went out and the crimson curtain fell 
behind him. 


When Mariella came home her mother was sit- 
ting, rocking, by the window. The lamp was 
lighted. 

“Pills,” she said, “I want you to stop goin’ 
with that fello’.” 

The girl looked at her in silence. Then she 
took off her turban and stuck the long black pins 
back into it. 

“ I thought you liked him,” she said, slowly. 

“I do, but Mr. Grover wants you — an’ I like 
him better.” 

“Wants me P'' Mariella drew up her shoul- 
ders proudly. 257 


THK MOTHER OF “ PILES ” 


“Yes, you,” replied Mrs. Mansfield, laughing. 
The humor of the situation was beginning to ap- 
peal to her. ‘ ‘ He says he’d told you. You must 
of laughed after I told you he wanted me.” 

“ Oh, ma, does he want me, honest ?” 

“ Yes, he does.” She was still laughing. 

“ An’ don’t you mind, ma ?” 

“Not a mite,” said the widow, cheerfully. 
“I’d rather he’d marry you than me; only, I 
thought he was too nice a man to be lost to the 
fam’ly.” 

“Oh, ma !” 

“Well, get to bed now. He’s cornin’ in the 
momin’ to see you.” 

She took up the lamp and stood holding it ir- 
resolutely. 

“Pills,” she said, looking embarrassed, “You 
won’t ever tell him that I that I ” 

“Never, ma!” exclaimed the girl, earnestly ; 
“ as long as I live.” 

“ All right, then. Look out I You’re droppin’ 
tallo’ from your candle I Don’t hold it so crooked, 
child I I wouldn’t like him to laugh about it. 
Good-night.” 

As she passed through the kitchen she called 
out : “Oh, Pills 1 Mr. Jordan brought in a 
mess of trout We’ll have ’em fried for break- 
fast” 


THE MOTHES. OF “ PILES ” 


The girl came running after her mother, and 
threw her arms around her. 

“ Oh, ma, are you sure you don’t care a bit?” 

‘‘Not a bit,” said Mrs. Mansfield, kissing her 
heartily. ” I just thought he ought to be in the 
family. I’m glad it’s turned out this way. Now, 
you go to bed, an’ don’t forget to roll up your 
bangs.” 

She went into her room and shut the door. 


259 


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MRS. RISIvEY’S CHRISTMAS DINNER 


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MRS. RISLEY’S CHRISTMAS DINNER 


She was an old, old woman. She was crippled 
with rheumatism and bent with toil. Her hair 
was gray, — not that lovely white that softens 
and beautifies the face, but harsh, grizzled gray. 
Her shoulders were round, her chest was sunken, 
her face had many deep wrinkles. Her feet were 
large and knotty ; her hands were large, too, with 
great hollows running down their backs. And 
how painfully the cords stood out in her old, 
withered neck ! 

For the twentieth time she limped to the window 
and flattened her face against the pane. It was 
Christmas day. A violet sky sparkled coldly 
over the frozen village. The ground was covered 
with snow ; the roofs were white with it. The 
chimneys looked redder than usual as they 
emerged from its pure drifts and sent slender 
curls of electric-blue smoke into the air. 

The wind was rising. Now and then it came 
sweeping down the hill, pushing a great sheet of 
snow, powdered like dust, before it. The win- 
dow-sashes did not fit tightly, and some of it 
sifted into the room and climbed into little cones 
on the floor. Snow-birds drifted past, like soft, 
dark shadows ; and high overhead wild geese 

263 


MRS. RISIvSY’S CHRISTMAS DINNER 

went sculling through the yellow air, their mourn- 
ful “ hawnk-e-hawnk-hawnks ” sinking down- 
ward like human cries. 

As the old woman stood with her face against 
the window and her weak eyes strained down the 
street, a neighbor came to the door. 

‘ ‘ Has your daughter an’ her fambly come yet, 
Mis’ Risley?” she asked, entering sociably. 

“Not yet,’’ replied Mrs. Risley, with a good 
attempt at cheerfulness ; but her knees suddenly 
began shaking, and she sat down. 

“Why, she’d ought to ’a’ come on the last 
train, hadn’t she? ’’ 

“Oh, I do’ know. There’s a plenty o’ time. 
Dinner won’t be ready tell two past.’’ 

“She ain’t b’en to see you fer five year, has 
she ? ’ ’ said the neighbor. ‘ ‘ I reckon you’ll have 
a right scrumptious set-out fer ’em ? ’’ 

“I will so,’’ said Mrs. Risley, ignoring the 
other question. “ Her husband’s cornin’.’’ 

“ I want to know ! Why, he just thinks he’s 
some punkins, I hear.” 

“Well, he’s rich enough to think hisself any- 
thing he wants to.” Mrs. Risley’s voice took on 
a tone of pride. 

“ I sh’u’d think you’d want to go an’ live with 
’em. It’s ofiul hard fer you to live here all alone, 
with your rheumatiz.” 

Mrs. Risley stooped to lay a stick of wood on 
the fire. 


MRS. RISLEY’S CHRISTMAS DINNER 


“ I’ve worked nigh onto two weeks over this 
dinner,” she said, ‘‘a-seed’n’ raisins an’ cur’nts, 
an’ things. I’ve hed to skimp harrable. Mis’ 
Tomlinson, to get it; but it’s just — perfed . 
Roast goose an’ cranberry sass, an’ cel’ry soup, 
an’ mince an’ punkin pie, — to say nothin’ o’ 
plum-puddin’ ! An’ cookies an’ cur’nt-jell tarts 
fer the children. I’ll hev to wear my old under- 
clo’s all winter to pay fer ’t ; but I don’t care.” 

“I sh’u’d think your daughter’d keep you 
more comf’terble, seein’ her husband’s so rich.” 

There was a silence. Mrs. Risley’s face grew 
stern. The gold-colored cat came and arched her 
back for a caress. ‘‘My bread riz beautiful,” 
Mrs. Risley said then. ‘‘I worried so over ’t. 
An’ my fruit-cake smells that good when I open 
the stun crock ! I put a hull cup o’ brandy in it. 
Well, I guess you’ll hev to excuse me. I’ve got 
to set the table.” 

When Mrs. Tomlinson was gone, the strained 
look came back to the old woman’s eyes. She 
went on setting the table, but at the sound of a 
wheel, or a step even, she began to tremble and 
put her hand behind her ear to listen. 

“ It’s funny they didn’^ come on that last train,” 
she said. ‘‘I w’u’dn’t tell her, though. But 
they’d ort to be here by this time.” 

She opened the oven door. The hot, delicious 
odor of its precious contents gushed out. Did 
' 265 


MRS. RISI^Sy’S CHRISTMAS DINNER 


ever goose brown so perfectly before ? And bow 
large the liver was ! It lay in the gravy in one 
corner of the big dripping-pan, just beginning to 
curl at the edges. She tested it carefully with a 
little three-tined iron fork. 

The mince-pie was on the table, waiting to be 
warmed, and the pumpkin-pie was out on the 
back porch, — from which the cat had been ex- 
cluded for the present. The cranberry sauce, 
the celery in its high, old-fashioned glass, the lit- 
tle bee-hive of hard sauce for the pudding and 
the thick cream for the coffee, bore the pumpkin- 
pie company. The currant jelly in the tarts 
glowed like great red rubies set in circles of old 
gold ; the mashed potatoes were light and white as 
foam. 

For one moment, as she stood there in the savory 
kitchen, she thought of the thin, worn flannels, 
and how much better her rheumatism would 
be with the warm ones which could have been 
bought with the money spent for this dinner. 
Then she flushed with self-shame. 

“I must be gittin’ childish,” she exclaimed, 
indignantly ; “to begredge a Chris’ mas dinner to 
’Fizy. ’S if I hedn’t put up with old underdo’ s 
afore now ! But I will say there ain’t many 
women o’ my age thet c’u’d git up a dinner like 
this ’n’, — rheumatiz an’ all.” 

A long, shrill whistle announced the last train 


266 


MRS. RISI,EY’S CHRISTMAS DINNER 


from the city. Mrs. Risley started and turned 
pale. A violent trembling seized her. She could 
scarcely get to the window, she stumbled so. On 
the way she stopped at the old walnut bureau to 
put a lace cap on her white hair and to look anx- 
iously into the mirror. 

“ Five year ! ” she whispered. “ It’s an oflful 
spell to go without seein’ your only daughter ! 
Everything’ll seem mighty poor an’ shabby to her, 
I reckon, — her old mother worst o’ all. I never 
sensed how I’d changed tell now. My ! how no- 
account I’m a gittin’ ! I’m all of a trimble ! ” 

Then she stumbled on to the window and 
pressed her cheek against the pane. 

“They’d ort to be in sight now,” she said. 
But the minutes went by, and they did not come. 

“ Mebbe they’ve stopped to talk, meetin’ folks,” 
she said, again. “But they’d ort to be in sight 
now.” She trembled so she had to get a chair 
and sit down. But still she wrinkled her cheek 
upon the cold pane and strained her dim eyes 
down the street. 

After a while a boy came whistling down from 
the corner. There was a letter in his hand. He 
stopped and rapped, and when she opened the 
door with a kind of frightened haste, he gave her 
the letter and went away, whistling again. 

A letter ! Why should a letter come ? Her 
heart was beating in her throat now, — that poor 

267 


MRS. RISLEY’S CHRISTMAS DINNER 


old heart that had beaten under so many sorrows ! 
She searched in a dazed way for her glasses. 
Then she fell helplessly into a chair and read it : 

“Dear Mother, — I am so sorry we cannot come, 
after all. We just got word that Robert’s aunt has been 
expecting us all the time, because we’ve spent every 
Christmas there. We feel as if we must go there, be- 
cause she always goes to so much trouble to get up a fine 
dinner ; and we knew you wouldn’t do that. Besides, 
she is so rich ; and one has to think of one’s children, 
you know. We’ll come, sure^ next year. With a merry, 
merry Christmas from all, Eeiza.” 

It was hard work reading it, she had to spell out 
so many of the words. After she had finished, she 
sat for a long, long time motionless, looking at 
the letter. Finally the cat came and rubbed 
against her, “my owing” for her dinner. Then 
she saw that the fire had burned down to a gray, 
desolate ash. 

She no longer trembled, although the room was 
cold. The wind was blowing steadily now. It 
was snowing, too. The bleak Christmas after- 
noon and the long Christmas night stretched be- 
fore her. Her eyes rested upon the little fir-tree 
on a table in one corner, with its gilt balls and 
strings of popcorn and colored candles. She 
could not bear the sight of it. She got up stiflEly. 

“Well, kitten,” she said, trying to speak 
cheerfully, but with a pitiful break in her voice, 
“ let’s go out an’ eat our .Christmas dinner.” 

268 


FOR SUMMER READING 


SHOJir STOXIES. 

OLD TIMES IN MIDDLE GEORGIA. 

BV 

R. MALCOLM JOHNSTON, 

Author of Dukesborough Tales,"''' The Primes and 
their Neighbours " 

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THE PORT OF MISSING SHIPS, 

AND OTHER STORIES OF THE SEA. 

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Author of ” The Flower of Forgiveness." "Miss Stuart's Legacy T 
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